Parapsychology
by PhoenixFire Lia
Summary: AU, 3x4. When paranormal researcher Trowa Barton and his team of scientists head to France to investigate a haunted castle, they think little of it. But they get more than they bargain for when Trowa discovers his past is entwined with that of the ghost's
1. Who Ya Gonna Call? Dr Barton Takes Relen...

Parapsychology

Noin: Parapsychology, noun. The study of telekinesis, clairvoyance, and other unexplained phenomena. 

Schbeiker: _Parapsychology, _fanfic. The story about Trowa being one of the Ghostbusters. 

Barton: Hilde, I'm not one of the Ghostbusters. 

Winner: Yeah, that's Miss Lia's trippy fantasy. 

Was_ my trippy fantasy, Cat. When I was _six_. And not a word out of you, Nicki. _

Po: Let's see…ultimately 3x4/4x3, 1x2/2x1, 5xS, and 6x9, though Duo will flirt with pretty much everyone. Rating for language, yaoi (that's homosexual relations to you), possible violence, possible lime, dealings of the occult, and whatever else deemed inappropriate. 

Maxwell: Now let's get this AU fanfic on the road, baby! Whoo! 

_Shining fingah! Oh wait…wrong Gundam. _

            To any normal person, the main office to the Wing Agency would resemble any other office one might find in a business corporation. The floor was wooden or wood laminate, as was expected, and the doors were thick, ominous and double. One always had to have double doors. The window was large and picturesque, and was undoubtedly completed with off-white blinds. The desk was boxy and mahogany, and all too clean. One could actually see the blotter-cum-desk calendar. The Rolodex was in one corner, the large phone next to it, the pencil jar occupying the other side of the desk along with the stapler and a box of rubber bands. The Post-It notes, green ones, were smack dab in the middle. There was a black pole light in the corner next to the squat gray file cabinet, and a potted fern in the other corner. The walls were a sort of curry powder color with pale wainscoting running waist-high around the perimeter of the room. Framed pictures and newspaper clippings were artfully arranged on those nice little metal hooks paintings are supposed to be hung on, rather than a thumbtack jammed into the wall. And, of course, in the very front and center of the desk was a name placard that read in bold letters, _Trowa Barton, PhD. _ 

            However, upon further inspection, one would be able to see that this was most certainly _not _the average office of a corporate America sort of conglomerate. The Rolodex housed the most obscure of connections, everywhere from an occultist shop in Stockholm to an apartment complex in the North End of Boston brimming with MIT students. The Post-It notes had interesting little reminders on them, ranging from _pick up dry cleaning _to _poltergeist in Hong Kong shrine. _The photos on the wall seemed normal enough, though some of the occupants were far from normalcy. The clippings were about investigations done by several well-respected parapsychologists who happened to be colleagues, as well as articles about haunted America. And Trowa Barton's PhD? The doctorate was granted in the study of parapsychology and paranormal research. 

            Dr. Barton was at his immaculate desk, jotting down notes on a Steno pad with a black ballpoint, phone cradled on his shoulder. He was only in his mid-twenties, and a very handsome creature at that. Tall, slender, with the build of a professional gymnast, he happened to be the best-looking researcher in his field. And everyone commented on his eyes, a perfect shade of emerald, almost eerie in pale light and infrared camera. The only downfall to his near Adonis status was the shock of chestnut hair that refused to do anything but flop over half of his face, obscuring it.

            "So the severed head sings? Shanties, really? Interesting. Yes, I'll be sure to send someone up to investigate it. Yes, thank you," he informed his caller in a quiet, rich baritone, sliding the phone back into its cradle. He finished writing his notes just as a light rap came to his open door. 

            "Tro? Got something for us?" a light female voice inquired. A woman in her mid, maybe late twenties stood leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest. Clad in a blue striped shirt, baggy olive cargo pants and bright red Converse high-tops, Catherine Bloom hardly looked her age. She was Trowa's meddling elder sister and unofficial vice president to the Wing Agency, as well as their full-time photographer. And damn, was she skilled with a camera. 

            "Haunted lighthouse in Kennebunkport. Claims to be infested by the ghost of a headless fisherman, who carries his head under his arm. And the severed head sings sea shanties, if you can believe that," he reported, tapping his paper. 

Catherine wrinkled her nose. "Sounds like one we can let the Willowisp gang handle."

The Willowisp Agency was Wing's sister corporation, made up of several very respectable colleagues who enjoyed working with Trowa but, for the most part, didn't get along with the rest of their co-workers. 

            "Well," Catherine drawled, "while you were out this morning, I took a call. Some woman who owns a castle in rural France wants us to check her place out. Willing to pay very well and may just have a Class Three on her hands."

A Class Three haunting was the most rare and elegant form of spiritual manifestations, the kind where the apparition makes itself known and has conversations with those it makes its presence known to. Albeit, those conversations could be not much more than pointing to something in a dark hallway, but it was better than a glowing orb and some ominous chain rattling. 

            "A Class Three," Trowa whistled. "Did she say anything about this to you?"

            "Bits and pieces. I guess this castle's been in her family for generations and just recently they opened it up for public viewing. And ever since they've had people in it, there's been word of folks seeing either a young man or a young woman…she didn't specifically say which… dressed in early nineteenth century clothes wandering about. Very friendly, she stressed. Oh, and I made you a sandwich. It's on the kitchen counter if you want it."

That was another thing about the Wing Agency; it was operated outside of Trowa and Catherine's home rather than some stuffy office building. 

            "Hey Cathy, thanks for the sandwich, babe. It was just the right amount of mayo," a boisterous voice declared as another person barged into the office. A person who'd just consumed Trowa's sandwich. The green-eyed researcher glared coldly at the newcomer, who began grinning foolishly when he realized the luncheon item in question was not his for the taking. His ropelike chestnut braid swung like a pendulum, violet eyes bright with mischief. Clad in ripped denim cutoffs, a pair of scruffy-looking running shoes with no socks, and a worse for wear black tee reading _Kiss Me, I'm Psychic, _Duo Maxwell hardly appeared to be a professional anything, let alone a renowned psychic investigator.   

            "So, what do you have for us today, Trowa? Civil War leftovers? Ancient Roman gladiators still doing battle? A tap-dancing toaster?" he questioned, seating himself on the lip of the desk, peering down at the Post-It notes. Trowa held up his notes, as well as a slip of paper Catherine had given him regarding the call she had taken. 

            "There's a haunted lighthouse in Kennebunkport, headless fisherman who sings shanties…" 

            "Wait, he's headless and he sings? Ugh, my spider senses tell me to give that job to Sally, Lu and the rest of them."

            "Or, Catherine got a call from a castle in France. Possible Class Three. I've yet to respond to this one, though. What do you think, Duo?"

The violet-eyed man examined the paper, eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn tight. "Well…according to my psychic instincts, which never fail me, we're taking this job or I'm taking you down. So call this Darlian chick right now, and I'll wrangle up everyone. I think they were all outside playing bocce ball or something."

Trowa rolled his eyes, picking up the phone as Duo scampered off to assemble the respective agents. 

            "Yes, this is Dr. Trowa Barton with the Wing Agency, you called about your castle?"

            _"Oh, indeed I did, Dr. Barton. My name is Relena Darlian, and I was hoping you could come out and run a thorough investigation. Our situation is so unusual that I'm starting to wonder if we truly have a ghost on our hands or just some elaborate hoax."_

            "I see," Trowa said thoughtfully; ripping off the Kennebunkport page and picking up his pen, ready to jot things down on his trusty Steno. "Can you tell me a little about the castle and the apparition, Ms. Darlian?"

            _"Yes, indeed. Peacecraft Castle has been in my family's inheritance for generations, but then again, so has the ghost. Luckily, he's the nonviolent sort. Walking the halls and gardens, playing music at night, appearing suddenly and disappearing, and he just _loves _interrupting tea. I mean, he's not really a threat, more of a nuisance, and I am willing to pay handsomely for you to take a look around. How many tickets should I be faxing to you, Dr. Barton?"_

Trowa made the executive decision then and there to accept this case. It sounded interesting enough, especially the part about the ghost interrupting tea. "Five, if you please."

            _"Splendid. I'll have my best rooms available for you, and my colleague, the castle historian, will be awaiting your arrival."_

Catherine grinned excitedly, doing her infamous 'we have a new case' dance, which very much resembled the hokey-pokey. "Yeah, Trowa! Now we can afford to buy a new set of wheels!" 

            "And just what is wrong with Escaflowne?" he asked testily, referring to the large Volkswagen van sitting in the driveway, probably leaking fluids as they spoke. It was named after the beautiful and graceful mecha from a show Trowa had thoroughly enjoyed before it was taken off the air. However, this Escaflowne was neither graceful nor as fast as the original, and would probably disgrace the bold prince who flew it. 

            "Trowa, have you _seen _Escaflowne? It's a hunk of junk! The others make Hilde drive it because they refuse to be seen behind the wheel of that clunker. If it weren't for the painting on it, I'd say there was absolutely no redeeming value to it."

When it was learned that Trowa's poor, dilapidated van had been named Escaflowne, Willowisp technician and freelance artist Lucrezia Noin had snuck by and painted a gorgeous mural of the characters from the series of the same name on the side. Van looked resplendent with his white feathers, Allen with his regal air, the clever and playful Merle, the slightly neurotic (all right, mostly neurotic) Dilandau, the morose Folken, and the mysterious slip of a girl known as Hitomi. It was a work of art, and part of the reason why Trowa couldn't part with his beloved automobile. 

            They bickered about the condition of the van as they made their way down the stairs, into the living room-slash-conference room. The assorted members of the Wing and Willowisp Agencies were sprawled across the various pieces of furniture, cold drinks in hand, waiting for their assignments to be handed out. It is at this point that our stalwart teams should be properly introduced, as it would be rude not to. 

            Duo sat with his partner, a brooding young man named Heero Yuy. Heero, a native son of Japan, had graduated from MIT at the head of his class and was the top technician on either team. Duo would constantly sing his praises, calling him the McGuiver of the new age, that he could make an explosive out of a potato, some chicken wire, and a stick of Doublemint gum. He was handsome in a haunting way, with intense cobalt blue eyes and a mop of unruly mud-brown hair. How he ever married someone as outspoken and vociferous when he himself was practically silent was beyond everyone.

            On Duo's other side sat his 'sister by association,' Hilde Schbeiker. A spunky, petite bluenette, Hilde was usually in charge of cooking for the teams on and off assignments. She was also the psychic investigator for Willowisp. She, like Duo, had a permanent smile fixed to her face and was never seen without her fuchsia beret crowning her like a queen. Everyone called her the female version of Duo, and he called her Shinigami's Shadow, Shinigami being Heero's nickname for Duo. What it meant, well, that was a secret between the three of them.  

            Across from them was Wufei Chang, Wing's second technician, a product of rigorous studies at Cal Tech. Slender and elegant, Wufei was quick with his work and just as quick with his temper. His dark eyes would flash like lightning before he loosed his full ire. He kept his coal-black hair pulled up in an impossibly tight ponytail, which gave the appearance that his hair was painted on with shoe polish. Being of a Chinese heritage, he was also quite skilled in the martial arts, which he usually practiced on Duo. 

            Next to Wufei was his wife, Dr. Sally Po. Sally was the head researcher as well as photographer for the Willowisp Agency, and the one to keep everyone in line. She kept her honey-gold hair in curled pigtails, and had this air of motherliness about her that made everyone feel at home when she was around. Kind of unusual, when she was married to the man known to cow a person within moments of opening his mouth. 

            Beside them were the Merquise family, technician Zechs Merquise, his wife Lucrezia Noin, and their ten-month-old son Walker. _[1]_ Zechs was stunningly handsome, long platinum blonde hair kept tied back in a low ponytail, ice blue eyes piercing. He was a mild man, quiet, passionate about some things, and very protective of his family. Noin, with her dark blue-black fall of hair and her wry sense of humor, made the perfect match to him. They worked well together, and provided for pleasant company. Young Walker accompanied them on every mission, usually slung papoose-style on Noin's back while she ran wires throughout a haunted hotel. That was another thing about Mrs. Merquise. You called her Noin or you died. Lu was accepted only if it was from Duo, Sally, Catherine or Zechs, but Lucrezia was not tolerated at all. 

            "All right, shall we get started?" Trowa asked, surveying the teams. "Sally, you and your crew will be going up to Maine for the weekend. Here are the specifics."

He handed her the yellow piece of paper containing all the proper notes, which she scanned quickly and passed along to her partners. Noin groaned. 

            "A headless singing fisherman? Trowa, that's low!" 

Zechs chuckled. "Even lower since I assume we'll be traveling in Escaflowne, correct?"

Hilde pumped the air with her fist excitedly. "All right, Maine! We are _so _getting lobsters while we're up there."

            "And the rest of us will be going to the Sanq Kingdom to investigate a possible Class Three in an old castle, so pack your bags and be ready," Trowa continued. 

            "Where's Sanq Kingdom?" Heero asked, perusing their own list of specifics. 

Catherine was beaming. "France! We're gonna be flying out to France, and we'll be staying in a big romantic castle!"

Wufei hardly looked excited at the prospects of being an entire ocean away from his wife, one of the few sane ones, he mentally commented. "The anomaly is 'extremely friendly?' This has hoax written all over it, you know."

            "Hey, she's paying us pretty good for a hoax, Wu," Duo pointed out. Hilde twitched the paper from her ostensible brother's fingers. She scrutinized it, then let out a surprised gasp. 

            "Oh, Trowa, you lucky fucker! Not only is this going to be the best assignment you've had, but you're also going to score big with a…hold on, it's coming…oh! A mysterious and downright adorable little blonde. Wish I was going. I want to be there to see the little bugger."

Trowa rolled his eyes, pretending like he believed Hilde. She had a tendency to make things up more often than use real psychic skills. 

            "Well, ladies, gentlemen, and Catherine…"

            "Hey! That was cold, Trowa Barton!" 

            "…We shall be departing relatively soon, so I suggest everyone wrangles up their toothbrushes and gets some fresh double-A's for their equipment."

            "And this time, Duo," Wufei warned, "try not to offend anyone with your obvious stupidity."

            "Watch it, Wu. My trusty sixth sense is telling me you'll be suffering from bad luck and misfortune this weekend, so I would be very careful on who you piss off."

Trowa felt a migraine coming on. It was bad enough to be lacking in sleep for the next forty-eight some-odd hours, but to put up with the constant bickering of Duo and Wufei as well as a bizarre sounding case was enough to make him jump in Escaflowne and tackle the lighthouse ghost instead. At any rate, it was going to be a long weekend. 

Notes:

[1] Walker Merquise was named after that pilot from episode three of Gundam Wing…Zechs' little bootlicker…the one Quatre killed. The boy's middle name is Otto, after the lieutenant that committed suicide in the Tallgeese at Sanq Kingdom…episode nine, I believe. 

This story is based somewhat on fact, not just on my penchant for the Ghostbusters when I was younger. I watched some show on the Discovery Channel about ghost hunting and that's where this came from. And that Sci-Fi Channel show Sightings, but that one's a load of crap. I mean, really, some of that stuff is too farfetched, even for me.  


	2. Sanq: Peacecraft Castle and a Haunted Te...

Well! I've had a few people asking for the next chapter, so here it is. Congratulations to those of you who are graduates of the Scooby Doo detective agency and have figured out the identity of the ghost. As for what happens with him, well…you'll just have to wait and see, so there. This chapter is dedicated to Kay Zozma, who wrote me a very nice email. You too can get chapters dedicated to you if you send me a nice review, or an email, or a pretty picture. 

~^~

The Peacecraft Castle was nothing out of the ordinary, at least in the exterior. It was large, and it was old. Bits of the masonry were crumbling, the arrow-slits were now covered with windowpanes, and the gargoyle waterspouts had been tarnished from years of gurgling hard water. Pennants flew from the tops of the turrets, rose-colored flags bearing the Peacecraft name and their coat of arms, as well as the Peacecraft Rose. Catherine was snapping photos on a disposable camera, to be logged into her 'travel scrapbook.' The professional cameras were strictly reserved for work. 

            "Well, slap me shitless. If this isn't a haunted castle, then I'm a member of the Russian Ballet!" Duo proclaimed with a low whistle. The five scientists hoisted their duffel bags and proceeded through the excessively large wooden doors, the iron handles clanking and the rusty hinges squeaking with a mighty cacophony. They had barely stepped two feet into the main hallway when a woman briskly stepped up to them, glaring venomously. Her long blonde hair swished about her waist, and her odd, forked eyebrows were narrowed over coldly glittering blue eyes. 

            "If you want to take the tour, you have to pay. Nobody gets in here for free, you know," she stated sharply, delicate white hands on her hips. 

            "Back off, lady, we're scientists," Wufei informed her. _[1]_

The woman practically growled at him. "Scientists or no, you still have to pay."

Trowa stepped forward, looking very official in his black turtleneck and khaki-colored cargo vest. Khaki-colored cargo vests were the required attire of all paranormal researchers. "We were invited here by Miss Darlian. I'm Dr. Barton, the parapsychologist, and these are my colleagues. We've come here from America to investigate this castle."

            "Oh, I beg your pardon. I'm Dorothy Catalonia, the castle's historian and tour guide du jour. Usually we have Mariemaia handling the tourists, but she took the day off so I'm stuck with this abominable task."

Trowa nodded. "I see. Well, Miss Catalonia, as you _are _the historian, maybe you could give us an overview of the castle and tell us a little about the spiritual anomaly I've been hearing so much about?"

            "This castle has such an interesting history, and a very long one at that. Before there ever was a castle, this land was home to a ruling party of Celtic warlords and ancient Druids. A fortress was built on this property in the Dark Ages, but by the beginning of the Crusades it had fallen into disrepair. The Peacecraft family, Miss Relena's ancestry, built the current castle in the mid 1500's. Their family resided in it for several generations, until it fell into disuse in the early 1700's. 

"Towards the mid to late 1800's a Peacecraft relative by the name of Winner and his family took up residence in the castle. Olivier Winner, I believe, was the man's name. And he had thirty children…though most of them died from the various epidemics flying around Europe. Out of all these children, there was only one son. Just after the boy's twenty-third birthday he committed suicide. The gardener came around to the rose garden in the rear of the castle and found Young Master Winner lying among the hedges, his bedroom window wide open. It was believed he jumped, though it is uncertain why. All of the records regarding the Winner family were destroyed not long after the boy's death. We don't even know what his first name was."

"And you believe the ghost is of the Winner boy?" Heero asked, nudging the tasseled corner of a rug with his sneakered toe. 

"Positive," Dorothy affirmed. "No one else has died in this castle. No one else that we know of, anyway. Yes, Young Master Winner's spirit roamed about for quite some time, but went into hiding during the World Wars. When Miss Relena's grandmother opened this palace up to tourists in the late Sixties, he began reappearing and has continued to make his presence known to this day."

"So what's the ghost do? Your usual creak the floorboards and give icy drafts? Because it sounds to me like there isn't much to this Winner kid," Duo said pointedly. Dorothy shook her head, directing the Wing members away from the front hall and into the main reception room of the castle, where a large oak dining table was bright with candles, wax oozing into blobby puddles. 

"Oh, he makes it a habit to show himself daily, at three specific times. He's so punctual that we have all the clocks in the castle set by him."

Catherine raised an eyebrow, still clicking away with her disposable camera, the flash incessantly…well, flashing. Her 'work camera' dangled from a strap around her neck, the oversized lens bouncing against her chest as she moved. 

            "Really? That's so awesome. None of our other ghosts have been so…showy."

The blonde woman nodded, a slightly smirking smile playing on her magenta lips. 

            "Oh, he's such a ham. He comes at four, for tea, and is insistent we have a cup waiting for him; otherwise, he throws china. Then he'll appear again at nine-thirty, walk up the stairs to the bedchambers, and begin playing music…violin, mostly, piano if he's feeling up to it. And then he appears once again at precisely four minutes after midnight to walk in the rose garden where he died. And Young Master Winner always signals his arrival with a sort of unusual fragrance."

            "Like rotting flesh? We've had one of those," Wufei suggested. 

            "No, this one is more like perfume. Roses, and a touch of cinnamon, and sandalwood, bergamot, white jasmine, and a hint of incense," Dorothy corrected. Trowa was jotting all of this down on another Steno pad, a small one he kept in a vest pocket. 

            At this point another woman appeared, dressed in a gauzy pale pink gown, her golden hair pulled back with a silver and rose headband. She smiled benignly at them, bunching her skirt in her hands and curtsying. With a flick of her hair, she walked over to Trowa and extended a hand. 

            "You must be Dr. Barton. I'm Relena Darlian," she said genteelly. "And you must be the lovely Miss Bloom I spoke with."

Catherine wrinkled her nose. "Catherine, if you don't mind. And I'm pretty sure Trowa will say I'm anything but lovely. Isn't that right, Tro?"

            "I'll vouch for that one!" Duo crowed. "Duo Maxwell, amazing psychic. And these two gargoyles are Wufei Chang and my darling beloved Heero Yuy!" 

            "It's a pleasure to meet all of you. Now Dorothy, if you don't mind, it's approaching the four o'clock hour. I invite you all to join us at tea, I'm sure you could use some refreshment after your travels," Relena offered. They nodded as one, nudging their bags out of the way. Dorothy spirited away with a delicate-looking teapot in hand. 

            As the researchers and their host sat down around the table, Trowa glanced over at Heero and Wufei with an inquiring glance. They discreetly shook their heads, indicating that no; they would not be hauling out any of the equipment until after tea, ghost or no ghost. He nodded in return and sat down beside his sister, who was poking at the chair at the end of the table, the empty one reserved for Master Winner. 

            "So…where in America are you fine people from?" Relena asked, idly playing with her teaspoon. 

            "Salem, Massachusetts. It was Tro's odd sense of humor to set up a phantom-investigating agency in the home of the witch trials. Actually, we live not too far from the infamous Salem Witch Museum," Catherine answered. 

            "I wanted Cathy to be put in there as an exhibit when we were kids," Trowa added quietly, evoking peals of laughter from everyone. Dorothy arrived minutes later with a teacart piled with an assortment of hunger-invoking pastries oozing instant sugar high. She calmly poured everyone a cup, including the specter not yet present, and placed the pot in the center of the table with the cream and sugar. The ghost's tea was taken care of, two sugars and a splash of cream, and they all sat and waited for the clock to chime. 

            An ancient grandfather clock somewhere in the main foyer suddenly bellowed, reminding everyone that yes, it was still alive. Deep, sonorous gongs tolled the hour in an almost morbid peal reminiscent of the dreaded ebony clock from Edgar Allen Poe's horror tale _Masque of the Red Death. _The members of the Wing Agency turned their heads towards the empty chair, waiting for something to happen. Relena merely smiled, sipping daintily at her tea. 

            "Here he comes."

The air was suddenly permeated with a thick and heady smell, like a heavy cloud of perfume that roiled in the room's atmosphere. Catherine whipped out her camera and, in exactly two-point-six seconds, inserted a roll of extra-sensitive film, wound it, and had the flash charged. Duo's amethyst eyes shifted uneasily about the room, as if he could sense the incoming presence. 

            "Something's here, Trowa," he stated, his gaze following an invisible presence to the chair. Catherine, sitting closest to said chair, suddenly gasped and started snapping pictures. The chair's velvet cushion had an indentation in it, as if someone's weight were being put upon it. 

            "Good afternoon, Young Master Winner, we fixed your tea as you like it…cream and two sugars," Relena informed the specter. "Don't pay mind to our guests, they've come all the way from America just to meet you."

The teaspoon started vibrating on the table, before being lifted up and swirled around by an unseen hand. Relena and Dorothy seemed to pay no attention to the fact that a teacup and spoon were floating in midair, Catherine was snapping pictures like mad, and everyone else was staring wide-eyed. 

            "Um, Cathykins? Our happy deceased friend wants me to tell you that he's never liked having his portrait taken, so could you please stop? And Wu, he says you're freaking him out, so quit goggling at him, lovely," Duo said nervously, his face incredibly pale. Catherine quickly pocketed the camera and Wufei turned his attention to the half-eaten éclair on his saucer. Trowa gave a small half-smile in the general direction of the spirit, nodding an acknowledgement. 

            "Hello, I'm Dr. Trowa Barton, from Massachusetts. I hope you won't be offended if my friends and I follow you this weekend," he said casually, as if he weren't talking to a long-dead young man. 

            "He says that as long as we don't try to hurt him or Relena and Dorothy he'll be perfectly fine. And he also says next time, a little more cream in the tea," Duo reported. 

Dorothy narrowed her eyes, directing her cold glare at Heero. "Can he really hear what's being said to him?"

Heero glared back just as coldly, twisting the wedding band on his finger in agitation. 

            "I wouldn't have married him if I didn't think he could."

There was an eddy of cold air that rushed about the room, and as suddenly as it came, it went, along with that strong aroma that personified the Winner ghost. Everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, especially Duo. 

            "He _seemed _nice enough," the braided man said, helping himself to another tea sandwich. "Though it was weird being spoken to so directly. That's never happened before, I'll tell you that."

            "I hope these pictures turn out well. Do you have any place I could use as a dark room?" Catherine inquired, poking at her camera. Relena pursed her lips. 

            "There's an empty storage closet in the hall where your rooms are. Will that do?"

The redheaded woman nodded, a slightly giddy smile tugging at her lips. Wufei and Heero excused themselves to start unpacking and testing their equipment, Trowa following them to supervise. As he rose from the table, Duo beckoned for him to lean over. 

            "Quatre," he whispered. "He wanted you to know that his name is Quatre."

~^~

[1] This was a line uttered by Bill Murray in Ghostbusters. I couldn't resist putting it in. And stop snickering, Nicki. I am well aware of my former fetish, I don't need you reminding me about that or wet cheesecake so shut up. More excitement to come in the next chapter, but you'll just have to wait and see. Again, if you send me a lovely review, or a nice letter, or something pretty, I'll dedicate a chapter to you. Maybe you'll make an appearance in the story if you're that lucky.   


	3. Morpheus: Haunted Dreams and Wufei Uncov...

_So many people to thank for this chapter. _Rey Solo: _It's not exactly a fusion with _Ghostbusters, _but there may be some parallels. I haven't watched the first _Ghostbusters _movie in a few years. _Kay Willow: _You're fabulous. Have a cookie from Relena's tea party. _Rocky: _I'm glad you like it! I'm loving this fanfic with every chapter I'm working on. _Kasra: _You make my day. You can have…*searches pockets* one of Duo's hair ties. _Relwarc: _Yes, Quatre is the ghost. But you never know what may happen in the later chapters. I certainly don't! All right, well, maybe I do, but only because I'm supposed to. _Kay Zozma: _You're my hero. And those websites kick ass, so thanks for sending the links. And of course, to my cohort _Nicki: _Trowa shirt! You never dressed up like Duo, dumb ass. Better do it soon before you get sconed! _

_And now, onto the next chapter. It's a little shorter than the last two, but I wasn't sure where to stop off. I have half of the story written, just not chaptered, so I tried to pick a good stopping point. _

~^~

Trowa was sitting in an overstuffed wing chair that reeked of what Duo affectionately called 'old castle smell,' his long legs draped over one arm, the small of his back cradled by the other. He was absently flipping through his notebook, pen tucked behind one ear, waiting for Heero and Wufei to finish unpacking everything. Catherine had run off to develop her film in her makeshift dark room, and Duo was meandering about the hallways, trying to get a psychic connection to everything. Not that that was all that difficult, when he'd had a one-on-one conversation with their ghost not more than twenty minutes ago. Something was tugging at the back of his subconscious, something that he might have deemed important if he had known just what it was. Trowa dismissed it as one of those things he'd remember at two in the morning when he woke out of a sound sleep and left it at that. 

            "Damn it all. Lousy piece of useless shit," Wufei was cursing, whacking something against his palm. Trowa glanced up at his Chinese affiliate. 

            "Something wrong?" he asked. 

Wufei frowned, holding out an electromagnetic frequency reader. "It's broken. The needle keeps going off the scale. The numbers are _never _this high, it's got to be malfunctioning."

It was a belief in the paranormal investigation field that electromagnetic waves had a lot to do with places being haunted, something about the waves being able to trigger some sort of reaction in one of those lesser-used portions of the brain that makes one somehow able to see ghosts. But the numbers Wufei was reading were abhorrently high, abnormally so, which made Trowa very concerned. 

            "Heero? What's your EMF reader saying?" he questioned, calling out into the murky gloom. 

            "Numbers too high to be normal," was the reply, punctuated with a grunt as he came around the corner, dragging a bundle of cabling. "Why?"

            "Wufei's is getting the same thing. Got any speculations?" 

The sapphire-eyed man was just about to reply when Duo bounced into the room, latching his arms around Wufei and nuzzling him like a beloved stuffed animal. 

            "Hi there, Wu!" he chirped. "How's things going?"

Heero glared. "How quickly you forget which of us you're married to."

            "Oh, don't hate me because I'm so well loved, Heero! Not my fault I'm so irresistible, is it? Not even Trowa the amazing dateless wonder can resist my charm, ain't that right, gorgeous?" Duo asked with a saucy wink. 

            "What'd you find?" Trowa questioned with a no-nonsense tone. 

Duo shrugged. "Nothing. A picture of Old Man Winner, but nothing of our happy little friend from Relena's mad tea party."

Catherine bolted into the room, having run flat-out from a secluded corner tucked away in the castle, down a flight of winding stairs with loose stones scattered intermittently throughout the steps, and across the hall. Breathless, she thrust a handful of still-moist photos newly developed into her brother's hands. 

            "Look," she commanded with a constricted wheeze. Trowa looked…and uttered an incredulous sound akin to the one someone makes when they've had the wind knocked out of them. The picture of the teaspoon showed the utensil being grasped by a foggy, bluish hand, spectral white outlining the shape. The chair held the thighs and lower torso of its phantom occupant, vaguely defined by white and smoky blue. But the most startling one of all was that of the ghost's shoulders, neck, and head. The apparition had cocked his head slightly to the side in an inquisitive pose, phantasmal lips parted, hollows where eyes would be wide and questioning. This ethereal being seemed not only benign, but just as human as he'd been before his demise. 

            "Quatre…" Trowa muttered. "Hmph. All right, I want everything set up for our nine-thirty appointment with Young Master Winner. Set all the microphones in the upstairs rooms, the infrared cameras in the hall, and divide the motion and heat sensors between the two. Cathy, get your camera loaded and ready to go. As soon as everything's taken care of, grab something to eat and take a nap. It's going to be a long night." 

His face suddenly set into his 'on-duty' expression as the young scientist barked out orders. Grumbling slightly, they acquiesced, wandering off to hook up the various bits and pieces of electronics. Catherine stood over the chair, leaning on one of the wings, leering down at her brother. 

            "Those women weren't too bad looking, eh, Tro?" she stated nonchalantly. 

Trowa shrugged. "Eh. Too bad I'm gay."

            "Couldn't you just pretend not to be? I mean, really, Tro. Gay or not, you haven't gone on any dates…and those pretend dates with Duo don't count, so don't try using those."

Again he shrugged, really not listening to the nagging shrew perched overhead. "I'm waiting for the right person, Cathy. He'll come along, sooner or later."

            "Yeah, more later than sooner," she grumbled, walking off.   

Trowa chuckled, suddenly having some semblance of sympathy for his sister. She really did try, after all, to make her only brother and only living relative happy. He was just a hard person to please. With an exhausted sigh, he adjusted his weight in the armchair, letting his notebook drop and his eyes slowly sink shut. Sleep would be delicious right about now, especially after such a long flight and a terrible in-flight movie. It just had to be _Thirteen Ghosts, _didn't it?

~^~

            _"Trois?"_

A figure stepped out of the shadowy recesses, his head bowed. He was dressed in a high collared navy blue waistcoat, the tails fluttering about the knees of his navy breeches. Under the waistcoat was a shirt so pale a pink it was practically white, and a lacy cravat of the same color. The young man held his hat in his hands, such pale, delicate hands. He lifted his head and smiled, and Trowa felt his heart skip several beats. A young man, not much younger than he, with a handsome heart-shaped face and unblemished, translucently pale skin. Practically platinum blonde hair curled around his jawbone, bangs flopping down into brilliant, effervescent aquamarine eyes. 

_            He's beautiful…oh God, he's beautiful. _

Trowa hadn't put much stock in God for a long time, not since his parents were killed in a horrific accident on the MBTA Red Line. But he was willing to renew his faith if He let this blue-eyed Adonis be gay. 

             _"No, not Trois. I'm Trowa…Trowa Barton," _he answered, feeling a stab of something like guilt prick at his insides. The young man's lips quivered. 

            _"Trois, I'm afraid. I don't know what to do. Claudette and Nichole have become suspicious, Iria caught them snooping in my room last night. If Papa finds out, I will die, that is for certain. Please, Trois…please hurry and take me away from them," _the blonde archangel whimpered, clutching at his arms. Trowa grimaced, spanning the distance between them and holding his dream-companion in his arms. Words tumbled from his lips, words he hardly realized that he'd spoken. 

            _"I'm doing all that I can, Little One. Hold on, just a little longer. Can you do that for me, beloved?" _

The boy nodded, planting a feather-light kiss on his lips. _"I will fight for as long as my heart can beat, dear Trois. My father cannot keep me chained forever. I am a man, free to make my own decisions, and I will make him see that or I will die trying."_

            Trowa woke with a start, practically falling out of the chair he'd been in. The grandfather clock in the hallway was clanging again. He groaned, trying to shake off his dream. It had been so vivid, as if he'd really been there, had really been kissed by a phantasm of his dreams. 

            "Damn, why is it the epitome of perfection in gay men is always taken or a figment of the imagination?" he grumbled, getting up off the chair. He needed to find Dorothy, he needed answers…and dammit, he needed a jar of Icy Hot. Lying in a chair in such a position as he'd been in was _definitely _not good on the back. 

~^~

            Dorothy answered the knock on her bedroom door wearing a gold lame (pronounced la-may) and black marabou feather bathrobe, holding a crystal decanter in one hand and a glass in the other. She smiled, her forked eyebrows arching in mild surprise. 

            "Dr. Barton! What brings you to my boudoir this time of evening?" she asked. 

            "I have something I'd like to ask you that I didn't think could wait, if you don't mind, Miss Catalonia."

She shook her head, ushering him inside. "Care for a drink?"

Trowa politely declined, seating himself on a velvet-covered chaise. Dorothy's bedroom looked as though it belonged in Beverly Hills, not the middle of rural France. It was bedecked in pink, gold, and leopard prints, with all the latest baubles and gewgaws deemed the 'in' trend. Trowa silently thanked God, who had earned back a little trust from the young doctor, that Catherine wasn't big on the trendy and exciting. Her trends ran back to the days of Ninja Turtles and New Kids on the Block. She'd laugh and tell him that those were the good times. 

            "I was hoping that in your studies you'd run across someone by the name of Trois. I…um, was told by Mr. Maxwell that he was confronted in a dream by someone looking for a Trois," he informed her, idly playing with a tassel hanging off the chaise. 

Dorothy frowned, sipping at her drink. "Trois…mm…name _does _ring a bell. You know, I'll have to check my records and get back to you on that, Dr. Barton."

            "Thank you, you've been most helpful, Miss Catalonia. If you'll excuse me now, I'm sure my colleagues are waiting for me."

She nodded, escorting him to the door. "Maybe we could go for coffee sometime before you leave, Dr. Barton? I could give you an excellent tour of the Sanq Kingdom."

            "The offer is enticing, Miss Catalonia, but I'll have to decline."

She pursed her lips. "A strict clientele dating policy?"

            "I'm gay," he stated bluntly. 

Dorothy's mouth hung open for a moment, before she remembered that it wasn't in polite society to gawk at someone like a mackerel. "Oh. Well, then, good evening, Dr. Barton."

Trowa tried very hard not to laugh as he walked back down the hall. Sometimes the best part of his job was telling the enthusiastic female clients who would give an appendage to date their paranormal investigator that he was of the homosexual persuasion. 

            "Another dissatisfied customer for Duo's tally," he muttered, chuckling quietly. Duo kept a running tabulation of all the women Trowa had had to decline due to his gender preference. So far, it was forty-seven. 

~^~

            Heero was connecting cables from the infrared cameras to the upstairs parlor room where they would be monitoring any supernatural activity when he heard a loud 'thunk,' followed by a string of curses in Chinese. 

            "You all right, Wufei?"

            "Dammit, that hurt! One of these fucking stones is loose!"

Heero tried to stifle a chuckle, but failed miserably. Wufei was a lovely shade of beet red as he kicked at the stone he'd tripped on. It shifted as he continued pummeling it with his foot. 

            "Wufei, stop! Stop, stop, stop," Heero commanded, making him move aside. He walked over to the offensive piece of granite and pried it up, revealing a hollow containing a small silver box. He pulled the box out of the hole and replaced the stone, giving his find to his colleague, who carefully opened the container. 

            "Hmph. Nothing in here but an old, tarnished ring and some dried up flower petals," Wufei said with a disappointed grunt. Heero took the box and stuck it in his pocket. He'd show Trowa later, when they got the chance. It was probably something of importance that would pertain to their assignment, but at the moment he needed to focus on taping down his cables before Duo came and distracted him further.  

~^~

_That's the kit and caboodle for this time around, folks. Please be sure to send me some sort of review…email, the little review box below, Nicki, you can bop me over the head at one of our many shared lunches. I value all of your comments (and your criticisms…but I like the comments better). Act now, and you too can be one of Lia's _special friends. _Maybe you'll be special enough to be rewarded in some way. How, I'm not certain of, as I hardly have enough time to keep a fanfic running these days, but rewards for reviewers! And stay tuned, my dears, there's action, there's occultism, and there's a lime on the way! So, I'll leave you with that promise. Until next time, kiddies. I'm off to reconstruct Confederate south with Rutherford B. Hayes. _


	4. Librum: Second Haunting and Trois Baron ...

Much kudos to ye readers of the last chapter. Yes, I know it was short, this one is sort of short too, but full of very important bits and pieces that will be coming together in one yummy chapter of next. Yes, Nicki, we are approaching the lime territory. I'm slightly angered at ff.net and their decision to do away with the NC-17 fics, but that's neither here nor there, and besides, this is rated R. 

Trowa rounded the corner of a particularly narrow hallway and made his way into a dimly lit room, bluish from the banks of monitors displaying the results of the infrared cameras. The others had gathered around, and Wufei was holding a still-warm bag of instant popcorn. Downstairs, the ancient clock wheezed to life again, tolling the time with its cacophonous belch. Half past nine. 

"Showtime, boils and ghouls," Duo responded with a jack o' lantern grin.   

            For a moment or so, nothing happened. A gnawing feeling of trepidation churned in the innards belonging to the collective of scientists…or scientist, technicians, photographer, and psychic, to be precise. That was before the room began to grow heavy with the thick fragrance the castle owners had previously denoted as the ghost's personal perfume. Instants later, the motion detectors flanking the stairwell and hallways began frantically signaling, indicating that something was indeed moving in the otherwise deserted halls. The motion detectors were connected to the infrared and heat-sensitive cameras, as well as a bank of low frequency-recording microphones, all of which were digitally connected to Heero's laptop. As soon as the motion detectors were triggered, the rest of the equipment whirred to life. 

            "There! Look at that, Trowa!" Catherine gasped as something blurry suddenly stalked by the number three camera. 

            "Heat indicators are suggesting a cold spot in the Puce Room," Wufei declared, tapping a monitor. The rainbow spectrum of color displayed by the heat-index cameras showed a large blue-black anomaly in an otherwise normally tempered room. Blues and blacks always signified cold spots. 

Duo began breathing heavily, his eyes glassy and pupils dilated until they were merely pinpricks of black in a sea of deep bluish amethyst. "Sensing a _lot _of emotion right now."

            They nodded collectively just as the violin music began filtering through the halls, high and melancholic. The strains of notes had a mournful air to them, like a death knell that swirled and eddied like a gust of stormy wind. The notes dipped and swelled, mimicking a falcon riding the air currents. It was a pained pleasure, the music being carefully stroked out of the instrument, for it spoke of both love and hatred, gains and losses, life and death. With every brace of sixteenth notes rising jaggedly from a decades-old Stradivarius, Trowa felt his very soul bleed away in slow rivulets. His core of being pooled on the dusty stone floor, leaving him to question everything that he was, and everything that he should have been. He was burning and freezing, stretched beyond the fabric of space, time, and relevancy. To be quite blunt, he was utterly infatuated, entranced by the music and the mystery that shrouded this specter, this Quatre Winner. He felt himself being pushed farther and farther, straining to reach something that constantly eluded his outstretched fingertips. And then quite suddenly, it was over, and he was left exactly where he was, sitting on a collapsible stool with a bag of cold popcorn in his hands, hunched over a bank of television monitors. Only now he felt like he'd just had a mental orgasm yet was still yearning for release. 

            "Holy shit," Duo muttered, breaking the ominous bubble of silence that had encased the room. "Holy delete that music off your computer and I'll never sleep with you again Heero shit."

The braided man's husband nodded dumbly, rewinding the digitally recorded track on his computer, doctoring it up so that the low frequency sound waves would be audible. Wufei was already rewinding the tracks of video, scanning them with a scrutinizing eye, seemingly oblivious to what he'd just heard. Heero slid on a pair of disc jockey's earphones, playing back the recordings, drumming his fingers on the laptop case. Suddenly, his Prussian blue eyes went disturbingly wide, or disturbingly wide for Heero anyway. 

            "Trowa. You need to listen to this," he commanded, wrenching the earphones from the plug in the laptop. The Japanese man clicked on the 'play' icon once again. There were several minutes of microphone feedback, which was normal, and the sound of the crickets outside. Then began the sound of soft, light footsteps as they shuffled up the stone stairs and down the hall, into what was affectionately known as the Puce Room. The door never once opened or shut. And then, out of the murky silence, after a few moments of hobbling about and one swipe of a newly rosined bow across strings, came a voice. 

            _"Dr. Barton? This is for _you_, Dr. Barton."_

Trowa felt his insides lurch. That same mellifluous, honey-sweet voice that had spoken to him in his dreams earlier that afternoon belonged to the phantasmal Quatre. God suddenly lost any shot of redeeming Himself in the eyes of Trowa Barton. 

            "Wufei, give me your phone. I'm calling Sally about this immediately," he stated, catching the little Nokia with the dragon faceplate in his left hand. The other end rang several times, each peal of the line sounding farther away than the last. 

            _"Willowisp Paranormal Research Agency, Zechs Merquise speaking."_

            "Zechs? What are you doing on Sally's phone?" Trowa inquired, one russet eyebrow arched in surprise. 

            _"Sally's indisposed at the moment, so I've been given the solemn duty of babysitting her phone, your car, and my son. What's going on?" _the rich baritone asked dryly, invoking the image of the blonde draped across the front seat of Escaflowne, idly twirling a lock of platinum hair in his fingers. 

            "Heero's sending you a copy of a recording we took tonight on the low-frequency mikes, along with some video footage. We want your professional opinion on it."

            _"Can do. So I take it the assignment is going quite well?"_

            "It's certainly unusual. How about yours?"

            _"Could be better. I'm not sure what happened to my wife, Sally is in the middle of examining a basement crawlspace the width of a standard size breadbox, and Hilde is in bed. Guess who got food poisoning from a bad lobster last night?"_

            "Deepest sympathies to you, Zechs."

At this point Duo waltzed over, leaned over Trowa's shoulder, and shouted into the cell phone. "Hi Zechs! I miss you, darling!"

Heero whacked him over the head. "Idiot. _I'm _your husband, remember?"

            "Ow, you didn't have to hit me so hard! I was just playing around. Jesus, Heero!"

            _"I think you need sympathy more, Trowa. Good luck on your case. I'll send word via Heero and his laptop. And tell Duo that Hilde expects gourmet French food out of him when he returns."_

"Got it."

He shut off the phone and threw it back at Wufei, stalking towards the door. Catherine cocked her head, glancing at her brother. 

            "Tro? Something up?" she asked, stony gray eyes mirroring the worry in her voice. He shook his head, jamming his hands into his pockets. 

            "Just thought I'd take a walk. I'll be back in a while. Heero, you're in charge."

Heero nodded curtly and uttered a clipped, "hai," to acknowledge his newfound authority. And Trowa left their command room, stopped off in his own room, traded his khaki vest for a denim jacket, and went off on his own. Granted, one cannot go too far at quarter past ten at night in an unfamiliar portion of a foreign country when one is not fluent in that language and is not carrying a whole heck of a lot of money…but we're dealing with the phenomenal Trowa Barton, so that manages to make everything so much better. 

~^~

            It had dismayed Trowa to find that all of the shops in Sanq Kingdom closed at nine-thirty, and he was now indefinitely confined to the Peacecraft Castle. He sighed, shrugging off his jacket and carrying it in his hands as he wandered about the halls. At least the castle was large enough to not be confronted by any of his colleagues right away. He wanted to be a solitary creature now, abandon his pack for the comforts that silence and privacy provided. The emerald-eyed young man found himself meandering into a library, the bookish smell of must and mildewing parchment pervading the air. He peered down at a thick tome left open on a leather ottoman, a page marked off by a piece of gold ribbon. 

            "Trois Barón," Trowa read aloud, picking up the book that had obviously been left by Dorothy. "Famed artist and musician of the Sanq Kingdom area. Barón worked as personal artist to the Winner family, living in Peacecraft Castle for several years, leaving just days before the tragic death of the Winner heir. Barón toured London, Dublin, and Venice, showing off his most notable paintings, _Seraph _and _Faerie._ He died at the age of ninety-seven in Bordeaux, where his family owned a vineyard."

            _So this Trois fellow knew Quatre, _he thought. _No, didn't just _know_ Quatre, was friends with him…possibly lovers. Maybe that's why he committed suicide, because Trois left. _

But that didn't settle right with Trowa. There was no possible way the young man could have killed himself, he seemed far too gentle and innocent to fling himself from an open window. At the side of the small encyclopedia entry on Barón was a photograph of the man, taken while he was working on a painting. Trowa felt his blood suddenly chill. It wasn't enough that the half-finished painting, the one called _Seraph,_ on the easel seemed to be of Quatre. The thing that made everything suddenly stop, time, space, the beating of his heart, was that this man, this Trois Barón, looked almost exactly like him. True, the man in the photograph wasn't as whippet-thin, and his hair didn't defy gravity quite as much as his, and the color may have been a bit off, and his eyes seemed to be hazel, not the pure, unadulterated green of Barton. But the resemblance was uncanny. 

            "No wonder Quatre mistook me for him. We could have been twin brothers, or descendants, or…"

            _Or I'm a reincarnation of Trois Barón in the flesh, _a small voice supplied. It was perfectly logical. Reincarnations happened frequently, as Duo would sometimes point out. Those with unfinished business but didn't have a violent enough death to come back as a ghost got reincarnated over and over again until their purpose was fulfilled. Trowa glanced up, swearing that he could smell roses and sandalwood. 

            "Is this what you wanted to tell me, Quatre? That I'm the embodiment of your lover? That you have words left unsaid that have kept you from your afterlife?" he asked. 

The windowpanes rattled, the light bulbs plugged into the candelabras flickered ominously, and the temperature of the library suddenly plunged. Trowa silently cursed himself for not having the sense to take any of the equipment with him. The scent of the phantasmal perfume grew stronger, almost choking. The handsome scientist shuddered, clutching at arms prickled with gooseflesh. A blobby form materialized at the far end of the library, manifesting itself into the form of a young man in period dress. 

            "Quatre…" he breathed, the specter glancing up at him. 

            _"See you at midnight, Dr. Barton," _the lilting voice murmured, a small smile tugging at ghostly lips. Trowa blinked, and he was gone. It was if the moment had never happened, or a flash of déjà vu that came and went suddenly. He walked up to where the anomaly had once been standing and found a book lying on the ground, one that hadn't been there moments ago. 

            "You certainly are an intrigue, Quatre, I'll give you that," muttered the doctor, picking the book up. It wouldn't fit back into the shelf as it had earlier. Trowa stuck his hand into the space where the book had once occupied, his hand closing around something papery. He pulled from the shelf a stack of old, yellowing envelopes, tied with fading pink satin ribbon and carrying a perfectly preserved red rose twined into the bow. The top one was addressed in a sweeping script to _Monsieur Quatre Winner. _

            "Hn, there you are. Catherine's been looking for you," Heero stated, suddenly manifesting behind him. Trowa would've jumped if he didn't already possess nerves of steel and was quite used to things popping up behind him. "What's that?"

Trowa shrugged. "A bunch of letters our ghost pointed out to me. I think I'll go read them in my room. You can tell Catherine I'm up there and that she can stop worrying."

Heero nodded. "Right. And here, Wufei and I found this earlier. Probably belonged to one of the Winners." 

The Japanese man dug into his pocket and pulled out the silver box, giving it and a look that clearly read 'I know as little about this as you do so don't ask' to Trowa. Heero was just as much an intrigue as Quatre, but somehow Trowa thought that it would be much easier figuring out someone long dead than his very much alive technician. 

~^~

Sorry mademoiselles et monsieurs, but that's all you're getting this chapter. I promise, promise; promise the next one is going to be really good. The story of Quatre and Trois will be revealed and the limey part will maybe be in it. Or then again, maybe I'll be a sadistic bitch and make you wait two chapters. Depends on how evil I feel. Actually, right now I'm not that much further along than this chapter, so updates will start to grow more sluggish from here. Plus I have all the other unfinished fics to make some headway in and start chaptering. And school, and being on crew for the musical…yeah. So, until then, I bid you a sweet adieu. Make my day, review me, reviews excite me.   


	5. Blood and Roses: Quatre's Truth and a Mi...

Feel privileged, my cuddly readers! Not only do you get the next chapter earlier than I'd planned, but it's a long chapter! And it's really one of the best, I think. Sorry to those who've been waiting, but the lime won't happen until next chapter. But when it does, oh, will there be hormones a-flying. So now, let us rejoin Trowa and Quatre in part five of Parapsychology. This chapter is dedicated to Anne Olson, who runs a very nice website, writes some damn good 3x4 fics, and sent me a very nice email. 

~^~

Though he was not easily frightened, it was a shock to find that Trowa was lodging in the quarters once belonging to Trois Barón. A cold feeling of dread entered the pit of his stomach as he sat down on the bed, surveying his surroundings with unnerved scrutiny. An old, rickety easel propped up in the corner, the wooden palette hooked around the canvas mount, flecks of long-dried paint still clinging to it. A vase of brushes sat on a desk, next to an old inkpot and blotter, as well as a set of quills. A glass case held a lovingly used flute, and a violin that belonged to 'a dear friend' as the metal placard underneath read. A tapestry hung over the desk, one of Saint Jeanne d'Arc, looking glorious and triumphant. 

Trowa fell back onto the lumpy pillow, staring up at the ceiling and the iron chandelier that swung around above him, the electric candles flickering cheerily. His gaze snagged on a gilt frame that was just out of his vision, and he rose and turned on his knees, looking at a painting hanging just above his headboard. _Seraph, by Monsieur Trois Barón, _the metal plaque stated. He choked on his heart, which had risen up into his throat. The subject was smiling beatifically, holding his hands out as if to say, "Fear not," for his beauty was terrifying. Hair like spun gold curled around his face, falling into his eyes, giving him an almost cherubic look. The face was heart-shaped, the curve of the jaw delicately rounded, but did not make him look any less male, and the added femininity made the creature all that more appealing. Long blonde lashes framed aquamarine eyes the blue of placid ocean water, eyes that mirrored the peace and love the seraph projected. Perfect skin, peaches and cream complexion so pale it was nearly translucent, was dusted with a light blush. Slightly parted lips the flawless shade of pale rose begged to be bruised with kisses. And protruding from pale, perfect shoulders were a pair of ivory wings, the feathers glistening with brilliant opulence. All about this creature shone a corona of pure, unadulterated light that gave him a radiance that nearly made Trowa weep for its beauty. 

"Quatre…Lord Almighty, Quatre," he murmured, extending a hand to trace the angel's dusty cheek with his fingertips, run them across painted lips. He pulled the box out of his pocket, lifting the ring into his palm. Trowa rubbed the metal on his shirt hem, trying to return its shine. He ran his fingers along the cool surface, rubbing and caressing the soft metal until it glowed as though it were never discolored, revealing a beautiful silver band. It was so very small, Trowa just barely made it fit on his smallest finger. He felt compelled to wear the ring, and somehow having it against his skin made him feel completed. He stretched out his long legs and untied the bow holding the stack of envelopes together, the dried rose dropping to the bedspread. 

With trembling fingers, Trowa freed the letter from its envelope, being more than careful not to damage the centuries-old writings that he held in his shaking hand. He'd written these words nearly two hundred years ago…all right, maybe not himself personally, but some part of him. 

_'Dearest Quatre, _

_            Sending letters to one's own house is unorthodox, yes, but if this is the only way I can truly loose my tongue in your presence, so be it. I am quite smitten with you, Quatre, and if God finds this to be a damnable offense, then at least I will find comfort in Purgatory if only by your smiling visage. I care not that your father wishes to marry you off to some ninny who wants only for your wealth and status, for the greatest treasure you possess is your soul, which has called unto mine own. Do not stare at this letter so, with your disbelief clear on your beautiful face. Coy as you are, I have seen your subtle flirtations and the darling way you blush when my name is uttered. I know that your heart is rebelling against your judgment, as mine is now, even as I pen these words, an outpouring of my soul. If you follow your heart into my arms, I promise I shall take you far from this prison of social arrogance that aggrieves you so. Give me your answer as only you can, beloved Little One. _

_Always Yours, _

_Trois.'_

            Trowa felt his heart bleed, aching for the love he once felt and the rekindled fire within the core of his being. Having read one letter, he now felt a burning addiction, and he sat on the bed for hours, poring over the words written in what was once his own hand. But unabashed admiration and love was soon besmirched with trepidation that became harder to mollify with pretty words. Trois' letters began to run on the desperate side, trying to assuage the growing anxiety Quatre must have been feeling. Trois would voice his concern in his correspondence, grateful that two of Quatre's sisters, Brigitte and Iria, were part of their inner circle, but still worried that the rest would discover their cloistered affair and bring it before the patriarch. And if that should happen, Trois would mention, Quatre's very life would be in grave peril. Homosexuality was still considered in this day and age something wicked and sinful, even though time had yet to banish such imprudent notions. 

            Soon the envelopes began bearing address, unlike the previous ones, which only bore Quatre's name. Trois had gone abroad, taking his painting of the seraph Quatre and his faerie companions, his sisters, both of whom being the subject of Trois' other portrait. In his correspondence he promised to return by Quatre's twenty-third birthday to collect him and take the young man to Versailles, where he had an eclectic cousin who would be more than happy to take in a pair of refugee lovers. He had sent Quatre the silver ring in another envelope, calling it their engagement ring. And then, by some cruel punishment, he reached the last letter. It was dated the first of July, a full week after Quatre's birthday, the day Trois was supposed to come and collect him. 

_My Quatre, _

_            I was held up in Corsica by a tempest most foul, and am now on my way to Sanq to take you away from that hellish bondage that has you so fearful. I am, from the pit of my soul, most sorry for the delay. I would've driven straight through the tumult, but it was forbidden. Mail could not even leave the inn I was lodged at during this maelstrom. I hope you are holding out hope, beloved, and have not taken to any extremes. Knowing you, you are waiting patiently by your window, watching the roses bloom; playing a song on your violin that touches me, even here on the path back to France. Oh, to see you again, my Quatre. I will whisk you away to beautiful Versailles and be wed in the company of saints and angels, and perhaps a cleric who will be willing to perform the ceremony. And then you will never have to worry about your father trying to force your inheritance down your throat, for we will be far away. Perhaps we will sail to America; I hear wonderful things about Boston and Salem-town. I am flying to you on seraph's wings, my angel, my Little One; keep your chin up until we are joined once again. _

_Your loving fiancé, _

_Trois. _  

            Within the same envelope was a telegraphed message, one that had been sent to Trois by the two Winner sisters who had so faithfully helped their brother and his beloved. 

To Monsieur Trois Barón:

_            Do not come back to Sanq (stop) Quatre threw himself from his bedroom window and has died (stop) If you wish to pay your respects at his funeral you are most welcome to but be prepared to have a very good lie (stop) Father knows all (stop) We will support you in any way because you loved our brother as much as we did (stop)_

_Respectfully yours: Mademoiselles Iria and Brigitte Winner [1]_

            Trowa didn't even realize he'd been crying until he brought the back of his hand across his eyes and it came back wet and glimmering with warm, acerbic tears. He drew in a sharp, shuddering breath, glancing sorrowfully downwards at the letters and the desiccated rose petals littering his bedspread. 

            "Barton? What the hell is your problem?" Wufei asked acrimoniously, leaning slackly against the doorframe, golden-skinned arms folded across a well-toned chest. Trowa's head shot up, ivy eyes red-rimmed and wide, pupils dilated to mere specks of black. 

            "Wufei! Nothing, it's nothing. An eyelash in my eye, that's all," he replied quickly, trying to mollify his colleague with a careless smile that ended up seeming more forced than anything. Wufei shot him a withering look, as if to say, "You really think I'm that stupid as to fall for something like that?" 

            "Right. Heero wants to know if you have any explicit instructions for the midnight taping or if we should just proceed as we did earlier."

            "Actually, Wufei, tell him to turn off all the equipment. I don't want any feed to the garden, and I don't want anyone going down there," Trowa dictated. 

Wufei bristled, looking mildly surprised. "For a minute there I thought you said you didn't want us to do our job, which is to record any behaviors exhibited by a Class Three anomaly and study them."

            "That's exactly what I said, Wufei. We're here until Monday afternoon; there will be plenty of opportunities to collect data. I think we need to leave Qu…the anomaly alone for at least one of his haunts. We don't want to do anything that would upgrade him to a Class Three Malevolent, now would we?" 

Wufei grumbled something under his breath, threw his hands up in aggravation, and left, quietly cursing and mumbling about injustices. 

Trowa's shoulders heaved in a sigh; another ragged breath catching in his throat. Things seemed to be escalating to a point beyond his control. He'd gone from innocent bystander, the unwitting scientist who only came to seek knowledge and the wisdom that his field of study could provide, the knowledge that something exists after death, to an active participant in a drama that continued to unfold some two hundred years into the future. He was torn between the logic of Trowa Barton, parapsychologist, and the unceasing adorations of Trois Barón, nineteenth century painter and paramour. The voice of reason was about ready to figuratively crack him over the head for even considering something so unbelievably stupid as falling in love with something intangible and…well, dead. But his heart of hearts wept for the chasm that was life and afterlife, separating two lovers tossed by time and from windows. 

_"Someone's in a quandary!" _sang a voice in his head. Trowa groaned. He'd forgotten that the voice of revelry and mischief, too infrequently listened to, sounded much like a melding of Duo and Hilde. Perhaps it _was _Duo and Hilde, he could never tell. Psychics were never really his field of interest.  

_"Shut up. I don't need to listen to you, I can sort my own problems out," _he shot back, bitterly shaking his head while folding up the letters and retying them into their neat little packet. 

_"Don't need to, or don't _want _to?"_

Trowa wanted to abrogate the whole conversation, but the voice in his head decided there would be no stopping now that it had begun its tirade. 

            _"You're a firm believer in fate, aren't you? It's kind of like you're getting a second chance with this kid, so better not blow it this time, dumb ass."_

_            "Yeah, but Quatre _died, _I'm still alive," _Trowa protested acerbically, though his voice sounded slightly feeble and wavering, as though his heart just wasn't into the debate. _"Don't know about you, but that's not something one does."_

_            "So? Didn't Hilde tell you that you were going to score big with some blonde on this little vay-cay? Isn't _Quatre _blonde? Think about that, Casanova. You're on your own." _The little voice retreated back into his psyche after that, leaving Trowa to mull over his predicament by himself, which was what he much preferred anyways. 

            "Well?" he asked himself, checking his watch and getting up. "Eleven fifty-five. He at least deserves to be heard out. What happens from there, I'll just have to see."

~^~

            By the time Trowa had maneuvered his way past his colleagues, down the stairs and out into the garden, it was one minute until midnight. True to his word, Wufei had managed to convince Heero to turn off all of the equipment. Trowa glanced around the setting, taking everything in. Gravel walkways snaked elegantly around the grounds, like a gray river languidly flowing past raised flowerbeds and boxwood hedges, under iron arches and past granite benches. The beds were awash with fragrant roses, the bushes thick and full of life, sharp thorns guarding the delicate blossoms with their petals straining to touch the sliver of moon that hung in the blue-black sky. Small electric fairy-lights marked the paths around the garden, and a fountain gurgled from somewhere on the grounds. Trowa seated himself on a bench placed in front of a bush drooping with white and red roses, one that was below a window in the tower high above, a window still open, a candle flickering on the sill. 

            From within, the deep cacophony of the grandfather clock dolefully belled out midnight, while Trowa's watch added its own response with a pitiful beep. He sighed gravely, slowly beginning the count. Four minutes to wait, four minutes that felt like an eternity as they sluggishly crept by. Anxious and now gnawing on his lower lip, Trowa pressed the illumination button on his watch. Five minutes, twenty-three seconds past midnight, and Quatre was late. He cleared his throat. 

            "I'm alone and the equipment is off, Quatre. It's safe to come out."

The roses started nodding to an unseen breeze, their thick scent growing stronger, until Trowa could taste it in the back of his mouth. Gravel crunched under invisible feet, drawing closer. The candle in the upstairs window suddenly guttered out. A bluish haze appeared not far from where Trowa sat, slowly taking form. A young man of not much more than five feet, seven inches drew himself up proudly, bowing slightly with genteel elegance. Though his skin was transparent and had a bluish tinge, and his hair was now platinum-white, the aqua eyes of Quatre Winner shone with as much brightness as they ever had. A smile crossed his too-pale features. 

            _"Good evening, Dr. Barton," _he murmured in his dulcet, echoing tenor. 

            "Trowa, it's Trowa," he corrected, motioning for his companion to sit. Quatre complied, and the hairs on the back of Trowa's neck began to raise from the coldness of the young ghost beside him. 

            _"I see you found my ring. Did you read my letters as well?" _he asked quietly. 

Trowa nodded. "I think you need to explain a few things for me, Quatre."

            _"What's there to explain?" _was the bitter reply. _"My lover abandoned me, and in my grief I committed suicide. You already knew that, Trowa."_

            "That's not true, Quatre, I know it isn't true. You loved m…him too much to just kill yourself. Please, tell me. You can trust me, Quatre. I want to know what happened, how you really died, why you are at unease."

_            "Why? So I can move on to my afterlife? I _won't _go. No scientist can make me."_

Trowa smiled, admiring his stubborn will. "I'm not here to make you go anywhere. It's your afterlife; you spend it the way you want to. I was just hoping I could get to know the real Quatre Winner."

Quatre sighed, looking away in shame for a moment, and then turned his soulless eyes back up at Trowa, pain vividly clear on his translucent face. 

            _"I…I was in love with him, with Trois. He was under my father's employ for the longest time, working as an artist and musician, our own personal entertainer. Papa was, at that time, trying to marry me off to the girl with the largest dowry, so I would ensure him of a future and heirs to the Winner family fortune. I didn't _care _about the fortune, I've _never _cared about the fortune. Trois knew that, too. So we started sending each other letters within the castle, my sisters Iria and Brigitte the carriers. My other sisters I didn't trust, they were too willing to find fault with me, so that Papa would give _them _the inheritance. _

_            "Near my twentieth birthday, Trois was called away to tour Europe, his paintings had become such a success, you see. We met on this very bench the night he left, and he promised that he'd return by my twenty-third birthday, and we'd elope. He gave me the ring you wear now, and we sealed our pact with…well…" _here Quatre turned his head away, mimicking a ghostly blush. Trowa nodded, understanding what his partner was trying to say. 

            _"It was the last time I'd ever see Trois, while I was alive, that is. He sent correspondence from the road, telling me to be patient and describing all of the beauty that he saw. I waited for three years, Trowa. I could've waited until Judgment Day. Then came my twenty-third year, but Trois did not come for me. I assumed he'd been delayed, and began my vigil. I sat by that window you see up there, with my candle ever burning, not eating or sleeping until I saw that coach pull into the drive. Four days after my birthday, my room was ransacked by my sisters, who'd grown too suspicious of me. They found it all. My packed bags, my ring, the calendar marked for Trois' return, and especially the confessional letter I had drafted, which I was going to leave for Papa. I had figured that by the time he'd found and read it, we'd have been long gone."_

Quatre paused, tracks of ghostly tears slowly oozing down his cheeks, sobs hitching in his throat. He bowed his head, retreating into the soft cascade of pale hair that obscured his crying eyes. 

            _"Papa was beside himself with rage…I'd never seen _anyone _as angry as he when he tore into my room, with his eyes like a madman. In his anger, he picked up a poker on my bedroom hearth and bludgeoned me to death. My own father, Trowa! My own father bashed my skull in! He pounded me until he was certain my brains were leaking out and then he threw my body from the open window to…to…" _he gasped for breath he did not really need, sobbing hysterically now. _"To make it look like I'd committed suicide! But the part that killed me the most was that when Trois arrived for my funeral, he told my father it was all an elaborate lie, that he'd been secretly courting _Brigitte_ and sending the correspondence to me because I was his hapless patsy. My fiancé stood over my open grave and openly denounced me, and then promptly married my _sister_."_

            Trowa felt the bitter intonation of Quatre's voice stab his heart as though he'd been pierced through by one of the roses behind him. The phantasm beside him wept acrimoniously, having lived with the guilt and hatred he'd been feeling for two hundred years. 

            "We did it for your sake, Quatre!" Trowa suddenly blurted, not quite understanding what had suddenly come over him. "I'd been delayed in Corsica by a monsoon, and by the time I was able to send you any word your sisters had sent me a telegram saying you were already gone. I was willing to die as well, willing to let your father rend me in two if it meant I'd be with you, but Iria and Brigitte wouldn't let me. It was they who told your father you were merely our errand boy in this sordid affair, and I agreed to play along with them if only to honor your memory. I married Brigitte to keep appearances up, but there was no love…to be honest, she was a lesbian. Dammit, Quatre, I died along with you that night!"

Quatre bowed his head in shame, horrified that he could speak so insolently to anyone, let alone his former fiancé. His hands he clutched over the heart that hadn't beat in two hundred years, feeling the ghost of heartache sting. Trowa moved to tilt Quatre's head up to meet his gaze, but the cold thrill that met his fingertips without even touching the spectral form stayed his hand. He could feel the long dormant soul of Trois Barón slide back into its recess, having made his peace with his lover. 

"Please look at me, Quatre," Trowa commanded, his voice losing the hard edge Trois had given it. "I…I'm not Trois."

"I know. You are a man of science. He had a love affair with the arts."

"No. I mean, his soul is a gestalt with mine, we are inseparable. Yes, it was he who spoke just now, but he won't be doing that any longer, it isn't in his nature. He has fulfilled what he'd been waiting to do, and now I assume he'll leave some essence of himself with me and move on to better things. I'm not your lover anymore, I'm just a scientist from Massachusetts who lives with his sister, drives a ramshackle old van, loves epic poetry and PBS. I don't paint, I haven't played the flute in decades, and I'm not a conversationalist if I don't have to be," he admitted regretfully. 

_"So? I've been dead for two hundred years," _Quatre pointed out, his shame slowly being transmuted to something like wry amusement. _"The only amusement I get is haunting tourists and reading. I used to stand in the corner of Miss Relena's room and watch television, but she only watches trash. I liked the news. And I like _you_, Trowa. You remind me of Trois, and yet you don't. You're far more intellectual and stimulating, and I've always found myself attracted to intellectual men."_

"You're attracted to me?" Trowa asked, an edge of incredulity stabbing his voice. 

Quatre blushed again. _"As a flame draws a moth. I know I am being so very forward with you, Trowa, we have barely met and yet we've known each other for a lifetime or several. But I…I need you, Trowa. You're the only one to ever really understand me, better than even Trois, and he lived with me for most of my life."_

            Trowa allowed himself to smile, the mask of cool calculation fissuring. "I think I might have fallen in love with you, Quatre Winner of Peacecraft Castle."

The phantasm beamed now. _"And I you, Dr. Trowa Barton of Salem." _He reached out with one pale, slender finger and drew a heart on the back of Trowa's hand. The cold scalded him, prickling his flesh, but it was a pleasured pain. Quatre's touch left a red weal on his skin, but he didn't seem to care. 

            "Can I kiss you, Quatre?"

He nodded gently. _"I have waited two hundred years for another man to kiss me. Please do, Trowa. Please do."_

~^~

[1] Telegraphs did not have punctuation, so if a sentence was to end one would have to say 'stop' to the telegrapher, who would key in 'stop.' 

_[2] Two is implied. I thought I'd clarify the definition of '_lime' _for anyone who is unfamiliar with the term. A lime is an inexplicit sex scene…meaning that although there is some vivid description, it is not as graphic as a lemon, or NC-17 fic, which, we all know, is no longer permitted. So, it's Quatre and Trowa screwing like bunnies but in a connotation safe for the younger audiences who read mature fiction anyways._

_Yeah, so, lime next chapter. I hope to finish the story within the next couple of chapters as well. From here on in, it's going to get far weirder, though. How weird? Oh, I don't know, occult rituals, a little Frankenstein-style madness, and more hauntings than you can shake a stick at.     _


	6. Pas de Deux: The Lime Chapter

_And now, the long-awaited moment for many: the lime. It's short, I know, but I wanted to put it by itself…that, and because I didn't want to go into any more detail than I already had. I can read lemons well enough, but damned if I can write a good one. And remember, if you can't be mature about the context, _don't read the chapter. _It's not going to ruin the story for you. ___

"Can I kiss you, Quatre?"

He nodded gently. _"I have waited two hundred years for another man to kiss me. Please do, Trowa. Please do."_

Trowa leaned over to kiss the young spirit, but Quatre shied away suddenly, flinching. 

            _"No."_

The brunette arched an eyebrow. "But you just said…"

Quatre smiled at him. _"I'm sorry, Trowa. I _do _want you to kiss me, but if you did it while I was in this form, you'd pass right through me and I would hurt you, something I am loath to do. A moment, if I may."_

Trowa watched intently as Quatre suddenly became solid, fleshy, although he was still tinged with blue and gleamed with a spectral light. He reached out a hand, drawing his fingertips across the scientist's cheek. The touch was cold, as though he'd stuck his hands in a bucket of ice water, but it was a real, solid touch nonetheless. 

            "I can't hold this shape as long, but it will be enough to serve its purpose," Quatre informed him, aqua eyes beckoning. Trowa smiled and drew his hand up to cradle Quatre's jaw, leaning in and kissing him demurely. His lips were cloyingly sweet, tasting of cinnamon and strong tea, honey and perfume. It was an intoxicating taste, one that had become a siren song, drawing the American scientist inexorably closer for a second sampling. 

            "Quatre," he breathed, brushing his mouth over his partner's once again, daring to flick his tongue across that rosy lower lip. The pale young man yielded that tender orifice, parting his lips with the quiet utterance of a pleasured moan. Trowa slid his tongue into that moist heat, Quatre's working in a fervent counterpoint as flesh twined with flesh. Slender fingers reached up into that expanse of chestnut hair, pulling the taller man down closer, holding him prisoner. He was inebriated on taste alone, heart coursing heated blood through his veins, drawing downward to pool in his groin. 

            Breath was forgotten; Quatre had no use of it, and Trowa managed with very little as wild, almost desperate passion tossed the two young men into its throes. Lips reluctantly separated, Quatre issuing a disappointed whine, one that suddenly trilled into a near shriek of pleasure as those sweet lips began trailing down his pale neck, gently sucking on his skin. 

            "Ah, Trowa…" he gasped, fingers groping at the heavy cotton of Trowa's turtleneck. The American stopped, glass-green eyes wide with fear. 

            "Quatre, I'm sorry, I…"

The specter made a face. "I wasn't asking you to stop."

Trowa may have responded, but if he had, his answer was muffled, lips once again bruising his phantom lover's. He winced; need stabbing his loins with a sharp protest, his already tight jeans suddenly far more confining than ever. His fingers sought the hem of Quatre's shirt, trying to pry it upwards, but were thwarted by the various accoutrements of nineteenth century clothing. The blonde started scrabbling at the tiny buttons and bits of lace and waistbands with a frantic need, fingers tearing the garment to shreds. 

            "It'll just replace itself later," he explained, grunting as he shredded another half inch of material. The infernal shirt with its foamy lace cravat was tossed halfway across the garden with a small cry of reverie as Trowa's olive-skinned hands roamed an expanse of creamy skin, finding purchase in the dusky rose of Quatre's nipples. 

            "Trowa…" he giggled, arching his back under the touch, clawing at the collar of his lover's turtleneck. The green-eyed man tore it off in one swift motion, tucking it under the blonde head to cushion it against the cold stone of the bench. Trowa toed his shoes and socks off, running a bare foot up Quatre's instep, causing the phantasmal boy to gasp sharply. 

            "You're stalling," he growled, drawing himself upwards to lick at a stiffened nipple. Trowa groaned. 

            "You're just an impatient tease. You haven't been laid in two hundred years, what's a few more minutes?" 

Quatre's lust-hazed eyes narrowed, clever hands making a swipe at his partner's erection.

            "Trois was never this cruel."

Trowa laughed, unlacing the cerulean-eyed youth's pants. "You forget, I'm not Trois."

He pouted, squirming out of his breeches, now gloriously naked and lying prone on the granite bench, helpless under his lover's ministrations. Trowa slid himself out of jeans and boxers, drawing himself lower, until heated flesh grazed against heated flesh, invoking dual moans of bliss. 

            "I…I need…Trowa…Trowa, please. Trowa," Quatre whimpered, arching his hips to bring his throbbing arousal to brush against his lover's, gripping white-knuckled to tanned shoulders. Trowa let out a low growl, rumbling deep in his throat as his hips ground against Quatre's. 

            "Hearing you speak to me like that…"

Quatre gasped again. "Trowa, oh please, Trowa, take me _now._"

The brunette dipped over the bench, where his jeans lay in a crumpled heap, never once letting his clammy flesh leave his lover. He rammed his hands in his pockets, abject horror crossing his face as he searched more frantically. 

            "Shit…" he muttered. In his urgency, he hadn't the foresight to remember the vial of lubricant he made certain to keep on his personage at all times, in case he suddenly met the perfect man and had need of it. Suddenly his fingers wrapped around something, hauling up a tube of mint Blistex. It would have to do. 

            "Trowa?" Quatre's voice rang huskily in his ear, the angelic-seeming creature nibbling on his earlobe. Trowa nodded in understanding, ripping the cap off of the lip balm and liberally dumping it into his palms, smearing it on himself and his partner. 

            "Tell me if I hurt you," he murmured. 

Things started escalating from there, the spectral being with his slender legs hitched over the shoulders of his mortal partner, the pained pleasure of joining themselves, body and soul. Trowa had moved slowly, though he was certain he could cause no pain to Quatre. The ethereal creature had spurred on their motions with fervent urgency, spine dipping and arching as he rose and fell to the strokes of his partner, each ramming home in a stab of pure euphoria. Now they were standing on the precipice, bodies heaving with the effort of their coupling, straining themselves to push farther. The night had gladly accepted their proffered cries, the invocation of each other's name and to God Almighty as the edge of that chasm drew inexorably closer with every heated thrust. And then there was that moment of brilliant clarity, white light and noiseless infinity that came when a body had reached its physical limit, the floodgates bursting in a torrent of whitecapped waters that washed away any doubts and inhibitions as foundations crumbled under its mighty slam. 

Time and space and all things relevant seemed suspended in that single moment, ceasing everything and everyone in their courses. Trowa felt as though he were made of something liquid, flowing freely through everything, a part of Quatre and Catherine, Duo, Heero and Wufei, the air, the ground, and the roses who were nodding in consent to their union. He was Trowa and Trois and Quatre all in that one brief instant, and he felt the same indescribable, intangible emotion he'd experienced when the strains of amorous violin music had liquefied his soul. Eyes open, he saw the blue of Quatre's eyes staring up at him with awed rapture, and the striking green of his own reflected in them. They were truly one. 

The moment of climax lasted some indefinite amount of time, and whether one or the other had initiated it was unknown to them. For all the lovers knew, it was simultaneous. Sated and exhausted, Trowa merely lay on the bench, completely spent and feeling boneless. Quatre was hardly fazed by the action, translucent once more and fully dressed, certainly not looking as though he'd been in the throes of passionate lovemaking only moments earlier. 

_"Thank you, my Trowa. You truly are an incredible man, and I love you with my whole heart," _he murmured, kissing his love's sweat-drenched brow. His partner made no reply, seeming unconscious, as he lay sprawled across the bench, searing flesh wetly shining under pale light. Quatre sighed, taking up Trowa's clothing and tucking it under one arm before slinging his lover over his shoulder. To someone no longer living, the tall man weighed next to nothing. 

The handsome ghost glided soundlessly, invisibly, upstairs to the bedroom of his former fiancé and newfound lover, drawing back the covers of the bed and depositing the cadaverous-seeming Trowa on the mattress, tucking him in with care. 

_"Sleep well, Trowa. I shall see you again tomorrow, I promise," _Quatre whispered, kissing him once more before gliding out of the room. Trowa may have whispered back to him some term of affection, but in the end, he let his head loll on the lumpy pillow and fell back into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

~^~

_Voila. I hope this served as adequate enough, I know it was short, but I didn't see any way to lengthen it without destroying some of its integrity and ambiguity. Special thanks go out to all my reviewers, I'm so glad you like my fanfic, I really try. To Anne, thanks for archiving _Parapsychology _on your wonderful site, I'm working on a few things to fling at you as I write this. To Nicki, because you're Duo-fun. And Relwarc: next chapter, the weirdness will be brought on._


	7. Oatmeal: Tour Guides, Tears, and Duo's P...

Long chapter, this. This one is actually a bit more Duo-centric this time around, as he will be playing a crucial role as we get down towards the end of the story. Oh, and there shall be angst in this, towards the latter half, including Trowa going a little Zero on us. But not to worry, he'll perk up sooner or later. Reviews are recommended and appreciated. October is Love Your Author Month. No, really, it is. 

Trowa woke the next morning and found that he was in his own bed, though he had no recollection of how he got there. He couldn't remember what had transpired the previous evening, or why he felt like he'd been doped up. He peeled back the covers slowly, languidly relishing in the body-warmed flannel, before realizing that he was both naked and filthy. Appalled, he tossed the covers back over himself hurriedly, feeling his face heat with a blush. How the hell had _that _happened? Was he the victim of another childish wet dream? He couldn't remember. Sure, he clearly recalled reading the letters he'd once penned, and fighting with Wufei, but after that, everything went blurry. 

            "Might as well get up before the others beat down my door," he muttered, scooping up clean clothes and trudging off to the bathroom, in hopes of obtaining a decently scalding shower. 

            Trowa hadn't paid much attention to the bathroom when he'd first arrived at the castle, but now as he flipped on the light switch, he realized that Relena Darlian was a creature of modern comfort. No fifteenth century castle had a whirlpool spa, freestanding shower, and billboard-sized lit vanity mirror, that was for certain. He glanced at his reflection, made pallid by the harshness of the halogen lights leering overhead. And he cringed. The dark rings around his eyes stood out in stark contrast to his pale face and defined cheekbones, making him seem grossly cadaverous. His hair stuck out at awkward angles, and there seemed to be bits and pieces of foliage twined into those russet strands. His whole body was bruised as well, lips swollen and sore, shoulders and hips dotted with little purple-black marks, chest scratched, and…dear God, was that a _hickey? _

            "How the hell did I do this?" he breathed, fingering the suspicious mark at his collarbone. It was then that Trowa noticed the tiny weal on the back of his hand, small and heart-shaped. He remembered it being drawn on there last night, while he was out in the garden…engaged in a torrid love affair with…

            "Quatre. Oh my God, I had sex with a ghost. I had _sex_ with a _ghost_."

He hurried into the shower, letting the water pelt him and wash everything down the drain, his tension, his anxiety, his accumulation of unwanted filth. Rose petals and bits of leaf fell out of his hair as he massaged a dripping handful of herbal shampoo into his tresses, scrubbing meticulously at his scalp. 

            "The little…and here I thought he was just some sweet, virginal little kid with a tragic death," Trowa groused, lather sliding past his knuckles. "Then again, how was I supposed to know I was his fiancé in a past life?"

And how was I supposed to know I'd fall hopelessly in love with him, regardless of Trois Barón? 

            He hurried through the rest of his ministrations, pausing long enough to savor the therapeutic massage of the shower water before hurrying into a state of presentable dress. Clad in khakis and a sapphire blue turtleneck that made his green eyes stand out more so than usual, Trowa looked like some sort of deity manifested in a corporeal form. He could've cared less what he looked like at that point, he just didn't want his coworkers to start a mutiny.

~^~

            Duo stared sullenly at breakfast. He'd been hoping for one of those huge, seven course breakfasts with pancakes and eggs and perfectly wiggly bacon. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of a huge crockery bowl of lumpy oatmeal. He'd always hated oatmeal. He tried very hard not to throw up, flashing fake smiles at Relena Darlian from across the table, pretending to be very amused by the huge dish of gruel so incongruously dumped onto his place setting. Heero elbowed him. 

            "Eat your breakfast."

            "Hee-chan, I _hate _oatmeal, you know that," he hissed back, trying hard not to let himself whine. Whining would be ignoble, and it would probably set the moodier-than-usual Wufei off if he heard. 

            Trowa stalked into the dining room at that point, sitting and shoveling into his oatmeal without a word or a second thought. Catherine raised an eyebrow at him over a glass of orange juice. 

            "I thought you might've been carried off by banshees or something, Tro. Haven't seen you since yesterday evening," she said nonchalantly. 

            "Yeah, where've you been, Tro-man?" Duo chimed. This, of course, was a clever cover-up for his real question of, "Who've you been out laying?"

Trowa shrugged nonchalantly. "Nowhere." This translated to something along the lines of, "I'll tell you later."

            Two young women walked in, carrying plates laden with hot breakfast sausage and crepes smothered in melted butter and dusted liberally with cinnamon and powdered sugar. Duo tried not to whimper as the two teenage girls took available seating, murmured a "good morning, Miss Relena," and began shoveling in their breakfasts with great gusto. Relena nodded acknowledgment to them. 

            "Girls, these are the Americans who have come to research our…um, spiritual friend," she said pleasantly, going through the necessary introductions. "And these are our teenage tour guides and assistants, Sylvia Noventa and Mariemaia Barón." _[1]_

Sylvia was a pretty, petite blonde with hazel eyes. She made some little gesture and tore right back into her meal. Mariemaia, slightly younger, was a short redhead with electric blue, almost lavender eyes. Trowa choked on his oatmeal at the utterance of the girl's last name. 

            "Barón?" he coughed, thumping his breastbone as a mouthful of oatmeal threatened to slide down his windpipe. The girl nodded. 

            "My great-great grandfather lived in this castle as a teenager. He married one of the ladies of the castle, my great-great grandmother Brigitte, and she was almost a princess."

Duo noticed the grim expression that Trowa's face had taken on, and watched as he sullenly stirred the remains of his breakfast with disinterest. He himself leaned over to his husband again. 

            "We're the guests here, and yet those two twerps—who get paid regularly, I might add—get crepes for breakfast. I want a crepe!" he hissed, now blatantly whining. 

Heero jabbed him in the stomach. "It's oatmeal or starve. Learn to like it."

            "You're no fun. I'm divorcing you for Wufei."

The Chinese man had heard this comment. "I have a wife, thank you. I do not need a husband, Maxwell. Try Barton, that is, if you're in the market for another sullen brunette to hang off of."

            "I'm not marrying him," Trowa retorted, his voice expressionless. "Too high maintenance for me."

The way he managed to say this, sounding so completely serious, as though he were in a critical board meeting, managed to cause the table to break up into a fit of hysterical laughter. Even Heero managed a chuckle, which was on the rare side. 

            "Well," Relena said, wiping a tear of humor from the corner of one eye. "Mariemaia, why don't you take our guests for the proper tour of the Peacecraft grounds? I'm sure it would aid in their research indubitably."

The redheaded girl nodded, shoveling the last of her meal into her mouth and getting up, tugging the hem of her orange sweater-dress down further. "Right this way, please."

The five scientists fell into line, Duo flanking Heero's shoulder. The Japanese man grabbed his partner's braid and dragged him along in that fashion, using the lengthy rope as a leash. 

            "Come on, Duo."

            "Ack! I'm coming, I'm coming! Stop pulling my hair, Heero!"

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Men. Sometimes their stupidity overwhelms me."

~^~

            Mariemaia led them outside, touring the gardens and prattling on about which ferns this Peacecraft planted, and that bench was erected for that Winner daughter. Trowa mostly ignored her, caught up in his own thoughts. Quatre's wedding band still glittered coldly on his finger, and the back of his hand was still marred by the little heart-shaped welt drawn on by spectral fingertips. He wondered what his phantom lover did when he was not roaming the castle halls, scaring tourists and romancing scientists, and came to the conclusion that he must sleep somewhere, perhaps floating over his former bed, white-blonde hair rumpled by an invisible pillow. 

            "And _this _is the Peacecraft family cemetery plot. We're not quite sure of everyone who's buried back here, but it is safe to say that most of the important Peacecraft royalty figures have been laid to rest here, guarded by the roses they so treasured, and the angel of purity," Mariemaia stated, leaning against a weathered statue vaguely resembling Relena that loomed over the faded and time-worn headstones. A small pathway was cut into one of the bushes in the back of the plot, the aperture shielded by the shaggy overgrowth of zealous rosebushes. 

            "What's back there?" Catherine inquired, snapping several pictures on one of her many cameras. Mariemaia's gaze went to where the young woman's attention lay. 

            "Oh, that? That's the Winner plot, they were another wealthy family that lived in this castle during the Industrial Revolution. They say that the heir killed himself and his ghost haunts this castle to this very day," the girl replied, trying to make her voice sound eerie. 

            "Yes, that's what we're here to research," Wufei pointed out, hardly amused. He found no humor in cemeteries, or in silly girls who took their occupations lightly. 

            "Right, well, let's head on over this way, where I can show you the water gardens. Miss Relena's great-great-great grandmother had these installed back in the…"

Duo glanced back over his shoulder to say something to Trowa, and found that the tall brunette had vanished. He twisted his way free of his partner's grip and walked back into the cemetery plot. 

            "Trowa?"

There was silence, save for the soft rustle of rose branches swaying back and forth, as though a body had passed by them. Duo stepped through the path at the back of the Peacecraft plot, into the Winner plot, surveying the area carefully. There were dozens of markers, these not as old as the ones previous, and not as worn. He found himself reading the names aloud as he traversed the rows, still keeping one violet eye out for his comrade. 

            "Olivier Winner…Iria…Brigitte…Claudette…Nichole…" he muttered. "Damn, this guy had a lot of daughters. Bianca…Helena…Madeline…"

He neared the end of the family plot and found, at the very end, cloistered and hidden from the rest, one small grave at which Trowa was kneeling. 

            "Marian…Jeanne…Calliope…Penelope…Quatre. So, you came to visit him, huh?" Duo asked. He would have said more, but the actions of his colleague caused any further words that had fluttered on his silvered tongue to fall, crashing into the pit of his stomach broken-winged and silent. 

            Trowa was sobbing hysterically, the ugly sort of crying that one does not wish others to see, his tears molten and bitter, scalding his face and his throat as he could taste them burning in the back of his mouth. He clawed at the dirt wretchedly, frantically, shoving aside clods of soil writhing with fat pink worms, muttering piteously to himself. 

            "Trowa, are you all right?" the braided man asked quietly, letting fall his mask of joviality and replacing it with stern consternation. Trowa shook his head, shoulders quaking as another handful of sod sifted between his knuckles. 

            "I…want to die," he said brokenly, shoving aside another wriggling earthworm.

Duo's eyebrows arched. "You want to die?" he parroted. 

            "It's the only way I can be with him. He's dead, I'm alive. I want to be dead so I can be with him. I'll lie down in his grave and sleep in his arms, and the worms can take care of the two of us. We can stay here and watch over the castle forever."

            "Trowa, you don't know what you're saying. It's crazy talk. Take a couple of deep breaths and you tell old Duo what happened last night that has you ready to fling yourself into a burial shroud," said the young psychic in a tone that made him sound as though he were speaking to a young child. As a psychic, he really didn't need to know what had happened, he'd pretty much found out on his own. It was just better to hear Trowa say it himself than have him angry that he'd been "mind probed" for an answer. 

            "Quatre and I…we…I love him. I _need _him. But he's dead and I'm not, and there's no possible way we could be together," Trowa said dejectedly, looking as wretched as he must have felt. 

            "I see," Duo said thoughtfully. "So you made love with him last night, I'm assuming? Further proving our thesis that ghosts are more than just see-through bits of soul residue that are attached to something in the physical plane."

He could have easily said something more vulgar in his inquiry, but from the pain in Trowa's eyes, it was obvious that this was something far more intimate than certain four-letter words could possibly allude to. 

            "Right," Trowa responded, calming slightly. He leaned his head against Duo's shin, still sniffling. "But tangible or not, he's still dead, and I'm still not. The only way we could possibly be together is if I died."

Duo refrained from hitting Trowa. He wasn't seeing the forest through the trees, whereas the married man could see the whole damn woods from his viewpoint. 

            "Trowa, you're burning bridges. You want to be with Quatre, right? He's dead and you're not, nor will you be until you're a crotchety old bastard that shakes his cane at kids to stay off of his lawn. So, you can't be dead. What option does that leave?" 

Trowa shrugged. "Eternal misery?"

            "Wrong, buffalo breath!" Duo cried, quoting an old Latin teacher of his. "Necromancy! Didn't you read my card when I applied for this job? Deuteronomy Percival Maxwell, psychic and necromancer extraordinaire. Not only can I see dead people, but I have Scrabble parties with them and haul a couple back from the great beyond too. And that, my friend, is also why Heero calls me Shinigami. Cute little Japanese name for God of Death. And in my case, God of Death as in I am not leaving this goddamned castle until I've successfully resurrected your ghost, so there!"

Trowa was speechless, staring up at Duo through the thick fringe of his bangs, green eyes rimmed with brilliant vermilion. 

            The rosebushes started rattling, as if heralding the arrival of another from their company. The braided man didn't even bother looking back at the entrance. 

            "Give us a couple of minutes, will you, guys? Trowa's not feeling so hot."

He was met with no reply, though the bushes continued their clamor, the heady tang of roses growing stronger, almost to the point of being tasted in one's mouth. Duo grew annoyed, and jerked his line of sight to the passage cut into the hedges. 

            "Jesus, you guys. It's common courtesy to give a guy some space when he's not feeling well. So for the last time, take a h…hi there, you're not my associates, are you?" he said, changing his answer as he came almost nose-to-nose with a less than pleased ghost, his pale lips drawn tight. 

            _"Quatre Raberba Winner. Now if you will excuse me for a moment, Monsieur Maxwell…" _the pale specter replied, stepping towards his own grave, willing his body to his more tangible form. He threw his arms about Trowa, the older man dropping his head to his lover's shoulder, crying anew. 

            "Trowa, my Trowa, don't cry, please."

His breath came in ragged gulps. "Quatre…"

            "I heard what you were saying to Monsieur Maxwell just now. I'm not letting you die, Trowa. I know what death feels like from a firsthand experience…it hurts like hell…and what's worse, you regret everything afterwards. You think being alive sucks? Try being dead for two hundred years and missing _everything._"

            "But Quatre, how can we…"

The blonde shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. But Trowa, I love you. I love you so much that it hurts, and I'm dead, I'm not supposed to feel pain. And if we can't be together, I'll still love you, I'll love you enough to tie my spirit to that ring you wear and haunt you for the rest of your days."

            "Love you too, Quatre," Trowa mumbled into his shoulder. 

Duo shifted uncomfortably. "Well hey, I think I'll leave you guys alone for a while. I probably need to research the ritual I'm going to be performing, and I don't think I can just raise the dead without Relena's consent, so…yeah."

He took off at a brisk pace, blatantly uncomfortable with being around the two lovers. As a married man, he very well understood when couples needed time alone. Besides that, the thought of a living, breathing human doing _anything _to a ghost other than zapping it with a proton beam and tossing it into a trap made him squeamish. That thought got him whistling the _Ghostbusters _theme as he set off towards the castle again. 

            Trowa glanced up at Quatre, eyes still glistening with tears. "Quatre? Thank you."

The blue-eyed specter nodded, rocking gently on his heels, cradling his amour affectionately, humming something soft and old. 

            "You'll always have me, Trowa. No matter what may happen."

~^~

[1] I took advantage of Mariemaia being known as Barton by sticking her with the familial name Barón to make things a little more interesting. 

[2] Two is implied. I know Trowa is far too stoical to be hysterically sobbing, but there are a few factors one must take into consideration. 

a. He's gotten four hours of sleep at best. Anybody can be weepy due to a lack of sleep. 

b. He's standing over his lover's grave. You'd be emotional too if you just had mind-blowing sex with someone and you find yourself standing over his grave.

c. This ties back to b. Trowa realizes at this point how great a separation there is between himself and Quatre. I mean, at that moment in time, there really looked as though there was no possible way for them to be together, harkening back to Romeo and Juliet, perhaps. The only option he can think of is his own death. And so all of this culminates at that particular moment where Duo finds him, and the poor guy snaps. 

Next chapter: Quatre goes visiting, and Miss Relena finds out she's going to be having a resurrection in her castle. What does one wear to such things?   


	8. Pavarotti, Clairvoyancy, and InuYasha: Q...

Usual disclaimers apply, the same pairings hold, and Quatre is sentimental. Apologies for taking so long, life got crazy and it's only going to get worse from here. Random anime appearance of the month goes to Inu-Yasha!

Relena Darlian had no inclination to play the hostess for the remainder of the day. She had no guests other than the five researchers, and she'd given them free range of her castle and all of its facilities and personnel. With that decision made, she'd retired to her opulent chambers shortly after breakfast and made herself comfortable on a rose-colored divan, watching a repeat of the opera she missed the previous evening. The blonde woman sighed contentedly; she did so love Pavarotti, and likewise, her privacy. Being an heiress in the eye of the media was a taxing occupation, and it was quite nice to have uninterrupted solitude for once. 

            A sharp, obnoxious rapping intruded upon her thoughts, causing the young Frenchwoman to jump. Grumbling, but doing so in a dignified, ladylike fashion, she stormed to the door, adjusted her mask of social hospitality, and wrenched the heavy wooden door open. Duo Maxwell stood there, clad mostly in black, his jack-o-lantern grin disarming, almost unnerving. 

            "Hey, Miss Darlian! Hope I'm not interrupting anything," he said brightly, thick Bostonian accent twanging in his voice. 

            "Oh, no, Monsieur Maxwell, not at all. What can I do for you?" Relena asked, blatantly lying through her teeth. Duo toed the floor with a thick-soled boot. 

            "Well, I was just wondering how attached you were to that ghost of yours. Like, if he were to, oh I don't know, leave forever, how would you feel?"

Relena arched a delicate eyebrow. "I'd be a little more than upset. The only real source of revenue for the Sanq Kingdom is this castle, and people only come here because it is haunted. If we were to lose the ghost, this kingdom would fall to ruins. Why do you ask?"

            "I'll get to that later. But say you were to…well, fabricate the ghost story a little," Duo suggested. "You know, maybe get one of those girls to go around at night rattling doors and clanking around staircases and dressing up like a ghost. Scooby Doo it, if you will."

            "Perhaps, but would having them do that conflict with the ghost story?"

The brunette man shrugged. "Then you make up a different one. Say that Quatre Winner…which is his name, by the way…was actually a woman, kept disguised so that her father wouldn't know that his only male heir was really a girl. And then you could say that she fell in the love with the castle painter, that Trois character, but because he thought she was a he, he didn't love her and instead loved one of her sisters. This causes Quatre to despair, and she throws herself out the window. Thus her ghost wanders the hall, hoping that someday her love will come to understand and they may be united. Or some load of bullshit like that."

            Relena nodded thoughtfully. It was a good hypothesis, and she was getting sick of running into cold spots or being scared out of her wits in the night by sudden spectral intrusions. And she had more than enough violin music to last a lifetime. 

            "That sounds like a decent plan, Monsieur Maxwell. But you have yet to tell me what you plan on doing to get rid of Monsieur Quatre."

He grinned, scratching his head. "That was the other part of my question. What's your policy on holding sacrilegious rituals? If we put down a tarp and promise to clean up any blood, guts or other gooey things, would you mind if we performed one in the castle?"

Relena consented to the request, if only to get rid of the boisterous American and return to her beloved Pavarotti. 

            It wasn't until a short break to inform the viewers that it was indeed pledge drive month and the network needed money desperately that Duo's words actually sunk in. The Americans were planning on performing some sort of unholy ritual. In her spotless, majestic castle. A pagan ritual possibly involving blood, viscera, and "gooey things," and most definitely involving _her _ghost. She sighed heavily, wondering just how she got dragged into such incommodious messes. 

~^~

            Quatre was about as bored as a ghost could get. After spending most of the morning comforting Trowa and assuring him that death could not keep them separated, he'd sent his emotionally weary lover back up to bed for some much-deserved rest and a massage delivered from pale, bluish hands. Duo was running about like a fiend, mumbling to himself things regarding the ceremony he would be performing, and obviously in no condition to want to stop and spend some quality time with a bored ghost. He glided down the hallway, keeping his feet off the floor so as not to disturb Trowa, old castle floors did tend to resonate spectral footsteps far too much, deciding to visit with the rest of the Wing Agency and at least introduce himself. 

            The pale phantasm slipped through one of the cumbersome wooden doors silently, approaching the bed on which Wufei was seated, lotus position, meditating. He seemed to be muttering under his breath a prayer that some deity, Nataku, Quatre heard, would provide him with guidance and strength while everyone around him went mad. 

            _"Monsieur Chang?" _he asked, maintaining some distance from the intense technician.

            "Go away, onna. I don't want anything right now, I said I'd tell you if I did," he growled, not once opening his eyes. Quatre sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

            _"Monsieur Chang, my name is Quatre Raberba Winner, I'm the young man you were sent here to study. I was hoping I could get a chance to talk to you."_

Wufei opened his eyes, startled, falling out of his lotus position into an ungainly and unjust heap on the duvet cover. "A ghost? In my room? Kisama!"

            _"Please don't, I find it very annoying to be feared. I didn't choose to die and never cross over, it just happened."_

The elegant young man frowned, dark eyes narrowed. "So it wasn't suicide. Hmph. I didn't think so, didn't think you had the guts to kill yourself."

            _"Gee, thanks," _Quatre retorted sarcastically. _"Monsieur Chang, I know you are a good friend of Trowa's, and I wanted to tell you that if something should go wrong tonight, that you need to be there for him. This is going to be very trying, and Trowa is going to need friends to fall back on."_

Wufei bore an expression of skepticism, his face screwed up into an amusing visage. Quatre was already quietly disintegrating, melting back into the shadows. 

            "Hold it, ghost! I'm not finished with you! What do you mean I need to be there for Barton? What's going on tonight?" he shouted. But the specter had already passed. Wufei glowered, now more confused than ever, and not at all pleased that his meditation had been interrupted. 

            "Kisama, I knew I should've listened to my parents and gone into politics."

~^~

            Heero was in his room as well, typing away at his laptop, the thick disc jockey headphones dangling around his neck. Zechs had returned correspondence, saying that he had no further information to give than his utter astonishment. He hadn't really expected that Zechs would have anything new to say, the blonde man was not the most learned of scholars in his opinion. He glanced down at his watch, wondering where Duo had wandered off to, then decided he'd rather not know. 

            "Hello, Quatre," he stated quite suddenly, still typing feverishly. 

            _"How did you know I was here?" _was the astonished reply, the young phantasm hovering in the corner he'd occupied for all of ten seconds. 

            "I knew you were coming. Duo may be psychic, but I'm at least seventy-eight percent clairvoyant."

Quatre sank into a little armchair near his corner, idly toying with the plush arm. _"So then you must know what your husband is planning, Monsieur Yuy."_

Heero shook his head. "I haven't seen Duo since this morning. I have no idea what odd notions he's come up with now, nor do I really want to know. Those things tend to get him into serious trouble."

            _"He's planning on resurrecting me, Monsieur Yuy," _the turquoise-eyed ghost said matter-of-factly. _"For Trowa. They'll need your help, I think, especially Monsieur Maxwell. Necromancy is something that really shouldn't be fooled around with, and he may just need some of your strength to draw on."_

Heero nodded curtly, still not looking up from his laptop, intent on finishing his work. 

            "You care a lot about Trowa, don't you?" he asked quietly. 

            _"Yes."_

            "Good. Trowa's been through enough hardships in his life, he needs someone like you to help him forget how painful life can be."

Quatre bit his lip. _"What sort of hardships?"_

Heero glanced up at him, piercing blue eyes cold, face grim. "That's not my business to say."

            _"Thank you very much, Monsieur Yuy. I shall see you later, I suppose."_

The spirit evaporated into a cold mist that slipped under the doorway, leaving Heero to his solitude. The Japanese technician merely sighed, taking the headphones off and putting his laptop down. He'd just gotten a flash of something, a glimpse of what may be on the horizon. 

            "As usual, Duo's going to need me to bail him out," he muttered. "He never seems to learn to remember his wallet when he needs it."

~^~

            Catherine was sitting in a wing chair in the library, legs tucked up under her chin as she read a copy of _Inu-Yasha _that she'd taken with her on the trip. Manga had become her current obsession, and lately found herself shelling out large amounts of money to expand her collection. She lifted a cold hand to turn the page, but found it had already been turned. 

            "I hate haunted castles," she whimpered, drawing her legs in tighter. 

            _"Mademoiselle Catherine?"_

The woman screamed, upturning the chair, still in it. She crashed to the floor with a heavy thud, cowering underneath it. The heavy chair was suddenly lifted, and she glanced up to see a smiling young man fixing his fluffy bangs. Correction, a smiling young man that she could see clear through. 

            _"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Catherine, I did not mean to startle you."_

She got up, leaning against the chair as if it would protect her. "I-it's okay. You're K-k-Quatre, aren't you?"

            _"Indeed. I was wondering if I could speak with you, Mademoiselle Catherine…about Trowa?"_

"Trowa? What about Trowa?" she asked sternly, switching into full maternal mode, her fear abandoned. 

            "Simply put, I love him. He is my soul mate…no pun intended, and I could not think of existing without him, trite as that may sound."

The russet-haired woman massaged her temple, trying to convince herself she was not hearing what she was hearing. "You're in love with my Trowa? You've been dead for close to three centuries and you're in love with my brother? Shit, and I thought he was desperate."

            _"He's the only one I've seen in two hundred years that has understood me so well. Without even saying anything he knows how to make me happy, not even my former fiancé could do that. You do understand, yes?"_

            "I don't know," Catherine replied sheepishly. "This is almost too weird, even for me. I mean, ghosts are cool and all, but ghosts doing the horizontal mambo with my baby bro? Being a sister-in-law to somebody dead? Not my idea of a fun time."

Quatre shrugged. _"Well, I'm being resurrected…if Monsieur Duo doesn't botch it."_

            "Hold the ectoplasm. Duo's going to be performing a sacrilegious, occultist ceremony? And he hasn't told me yet?!" 

            _"So does this mean you're giving us your blessing, seeing as how you're Trowa's legal guardian…or were until he became of age."_

Catherine nodded vigorously. "Yeah, I think I am. Aw, occult ceremonies are so cool! And hey, if it gets that grump off my ass about being lonely, by all means, mambo away."

Quatre smiled, slowly fading away. _"Merci, Mademoiselle Catherine."_

            Catherine sat back down in her chair, picking up her manga again. She smiled a little to herself, realizing that with the addition of Quatre, she'd have one more family member to meddle in the life of. It was fun enough to meddle with Trowa, but to meddle with Trowa and a significant other would be nirvana. 

            "No, thank _you, _Quatre."

~^~

            Short chapter, yes, but a chapter nonetheless. Things have gotten hectic for Madame Lia, and so as we approach the home stretch of Parapsychology, the remaining chapters will become fewer and farther between. This does not mean, however, that I am not going to finish it. It'll just take longer than initially projected. 

Next Chapter: Final preparations for the ceremony, and Duo coerces the other into helping with some backbreaking manual labor. Fun will be had by all. 


	9. Sacrilege: Dirt, Blood and Rituals by Ca...

Despite earlier plans to do the resurrection ceremony in two parts, I decided to combine it all into one big chapter. That means the story will be over a lot sooner than I'd planned. Damn. Warnings for this chapter: it's kind of gory, but not enough to make you lose your lunch. My definition of gory is anything bigger than a papercut, though. 

Duo chewed on the pad of his thumb, glancing about Quatre's bedroom with agitation. He felt as though he was missing something, some important ingredient or piece of equipment, but he couldn't think of what. With an annoyed squeak, he crossed the creaking floor to the bureau, where he'd propped up a huge, yellowing book with a thick black binding. 

            "I love this thing. Let's see, 'Necromancy for the Average Village Idiot.' That's what we need, considering Wufei's going to be helping out. Right, so…hmm, raising zombie armies, no, calling back the recently deceased, no, aha! Resurrecting those long passed on, bingo. Necessary ingredients: black candles, check. Anointing oil, check. Holy water, check. Tarpaulin, check. Various ingredients of questionable origin, check. Subject's corpse…oh, _that's _what we need. Okay, that's no biggie."

The longhaired man wandered down the spiral staircase into the hallway where the scientists were residing for the weekend. 

            "Hey! Who wants to come dig up a cadaver in the backyard?" he hollered. 

Wufei stuck his head out the door. "Idiot! Barton's asleep!" he hissed. 

            "Shit, sorry. Come on, Chang-a-lang-a-ding-dong, you'll help me shovel up Quatre's wormy remains, right? I'll bet Trowa gives you a bonus in your next paycheck for helping out."

Wufei sighed crossly, pulling on his work boots and a navy blue windbreaker. "Fine."

Heero, Catherine, and Mariemaia appeared almost out of nowhere as well, the latter carrying a large camping lantern. 

            "Monsieur Yuy said you needed shovels. Follow me, si vous plait."

They were led down a tiny set of stairs outside, to a gardening shed tucked innocuously away from the castle. Mariemaia unlocked it and passed spades to the three men, giving Catherine the lantern. 

            "I don't even want to know what you're up to, but if you need anything, just send for me or Sylvia, and we'll get it. Okay?"

They nodded and trouped out into the cemetery, Catherine leading the way with the lantern. 

~^~

            "All right, guys, here's the deal. This is Quatre's grave. These are shovels. Our mission: dig up Quatre's grave and get his remains out in as close to one piece as we can," Duo instructed, stamping down on the shovel and pitching a dirt clod over his shoulder. Heero and Wufei, not wanting to question the slightly insane necromancer, complied, digging in. Catherine held the lantern overhead, illuminating the small plot. 

            "So…why are we…doing this again?" Wufei grunted, wiping his forehead as they dug further into the ground, already about a quarter of the way to the relative location of the coffin. 

            "Because," Duo panted. "Trowa's…in love. If we…don't resurrect…Quatre, or at least try…he'll…be absolutely miserable…both of them. And Trowa might…try and commit suicide."

Heero nodded. "I can see that happening. Why isn't he out here helping?"

            "For one thing, he's asleep. And…I thought it might be too hard on him if we asked him to dig up his boyfriend. You know?"

Just then, someone with a shovel jumped into the open grave, leaning on the handle and looking slightly piqued.

            "So you're just going to dig him up for me, bring him back to life, and then tell me when it's all over, Deuteronomy Maxwell?" a dark baritone voice queried. 

Duo's luminous violet eyes went saucer-wide. "Shit."

Heero placed a hand on the brunette scientist's shoulder. "Trowa, help if you must, but we'll understand. This would be too much for me if I were in your position."

            He nodded and continued to shovel with the rest of them, plowing away at the dirt until the tip of someone's spade struck with a resonant 'thunk.' Everyone stopped, staring at the ground beneath them. A wooden coffin should not have lasted two hundred years; it should have rotted away completely. Duo and Wufei knelt down, brushing aside the dirt. Sure enough, though it was in rough condition, splintering in moist chunks, the casket was still intact. The four men dug around the sides until it was raised from the ground enough to take hold of the pallbearers' straps and hoist it the rest of the way. 

            "Cathy! Haul down the ladders, will ya?" Duo shouted up. A pair of metal ladders dropped into the open grave, side-by-side. With two men on either side of the casket, one hand firmly gripping the gold pallbearers' straps and the other on the ladder, they slowly ascended from the crypt with the coffin in tow. Catherine stepped back as they climbed out, gently dropping the sarcophagus on the spongy ground. 

            "Wow, it's like, whole. Why's that?" she asked. 

Heero toed a side. "Looks like they coated it with some sort of chemical and painted the innards with gold or gold plate. Held up pretty well."

Wufei nudged it with the tip of his shovel. "Should we open it?"

All eyes went to Trowa. He bit his lip, glancing down at the moldering coffin.

            "Yeah."

Duo bent over, unclasping the hinges on the coffin and carefully swinging the lid back. Trowa was quietly muttering to himself, his fingernails digging into his palms as he fisted his hands at his sides. The team of scientists slowly peered over the lip of the coffin, nervous expressions on their faces. A yellowed skeleton grinned up at them, bony fingers clasped over his chest, shreds of a pale rose waistcoat and navy blue breeches still clinging to the bones, wisps of pale blonde hair still rooted in the scalp. Heero placed a firm hand on Trowa's shoulder. 

            "It's not him. He's inside, waiting for you," he murmured. Trowa nodded, though he was visibly shaking. Catherine shot him a sympathetic look, though it seemed eerie and disjointed from the torchlight. 

            "We'll take it upstairs ourselves, give you a couple of moments, Tro. Just make sure you get up there when you're ready, this won't work without you," Duo remarked, dropping his shovel on the ground and taking up the casket again. His husband and colleague took the other straps, Catherine following with the lamp. 

            Trowa stood over the empty grave for a moment, watching the solemn procession as the others carried the skeletal remains of his lover back towards the castle. The hideous visage of the corpse was all that his mind could focus on, no matter how many times he told himself that it wasn't truly Quatre, just an empty shell without a soul. He knelt on the ground, violently trembling, one shuddering hand gripping the earth as he threw up. 

            _"It's all right," _a calm voice whispered in his ear as he continued to heave, retching dryly after there was nothing left. _"It's all right, Trowa, it's all right." _

He rose slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, spitting to expel the bitter taste. Trowa glanced about with watering eyes for his lover, but Quatre was nowhere in sight. He let out a slow breath, nodding a small thanks, and slowly plodded his way back towards the castle, where the others were waiting. 

~^~

            The other scientists deposited the coffin on the bed, which Duo had already covered with a heavy tarpaulin. Pillbugs that had been burrowing through the wood shook loose as the sarcophagus was dropped down onto the mattress, springing slightly. The corner of Duo's mouth twitched as he pulled a lighter from his pocket, solemnly walking about the tiny room in the turret of Peacecraft Castle, igniting the wicks of the many black candles. Catherine turned out the lights, and the room became awash with an eerie yellow glow. 

            "We'll just give Trowa a minute," Duo stated. "Besides, I have to find the right page."

Wufei frowned, folding his arms across his toned chest. "Do you really expect this to work, Maxwell? This isn't some hokey B-rated science fiction movie, you know."

Duo glared at Wufei, his dark eyes glittering malevolently in the pale light. "I'll have you know that it does so work, I've performed a bunch of necromancy rituals, successful ones, I might add. Right, Heero?"

            "He brought our parakeet back to life six times," the Japanese man said matter-of-factly. "And I got a premonition a moment ago. Something big is going to happen tonight."

Trowa sauntered into the room, closing the door behind him. "Let's get this thing over with as quickly as possible, Duo."

The violet-eyed necromancer nodded, thumbing over another page of his thick grimoire.

            "Can do, Tro. All right, the book says I have to read this before anything else happens. Lady and gentlemen, we are gathered here this evening to revive Quatre Raberba Winner in both body and spirit. Should there be anyone, mortal or divine, who does not wish this ceremony to proceed, may they speak now."

Not a sound was uttered, no god made their disapprovals known. 

            "Okay. We've laid out the body, the candles are lit, all we need to do is mark the floor with a circle of dirt from the grave. Dammit, I forgot to get grave dirt. Everybody shake out their shoes."

Shoes were removed and banged together until a small pile of dirt fell to the floor. This Duo sprinkled around the perimeter of the bed and coffin, muttering words in an odd tongue as he did so. 

            "Now we have to anoint the body with ceremonial oil and holy water…funny, using holy water in a sacrilegious ceremony. Ah, whatever."

He strapped on a pair of rubber gloves, dribbling oil and water on the corpse, smearing it with his fingers in runic patterns, still chanting in a husky voice. The room seemed to hum with a dark energy, crackling with faint sparks. 

            "And then we have to…" Duo's voice trailed off as he went to pour another vial of something into the open casket, tossing glittering powder behind it, chanting all the while. The hum in the room grew stronger, energy now visibly crackling like lightning at the ceiling. Catherine gripped her brother's arm tightly, digging painted nails into his flesh. 

            "All right, this is the important part. Trowa, you have to come here," Duo instructed, shoving a loose lock of hair out of his way. Trowa cautiously stepped forward after prying his sister from her viselike grip. 

            "First of all, you need to give the body an 'offering,' something that will connect the two of you. Once you have connected with the body, it will be a whole lot easier not only to revive the body, but to get Quatre into it," he explained. The green-eyed man nodded, slipping the thin silver band off from his own finger and gently sliding it onto the fine-boned finger of the corpse. It seemed to glow with its own flickering light. 

            "Good, that's good, you're doing fine. Now this is the worst part of any necromancy, you get through this, it's pretty much smooth sailing. The body needs blood, and since you have now connected with the body, it has to be _your _blood, Trowa. Give me your hand."

Trowa reluctantly held out his right hand, palm up. Duo swabbed it with a little disinfectant and a numbing agent, then ran the blade of a little silver knife straight down the lifeline. Blood welled up in the crack, pooling in his hand. Trowa looked at him expectantly. 

            "Pour it on his chest, where his heart should be."

Trowa tipped his hand, watching with a gross fascination as his blood trickled down the cracked ribs and the sternum, dark red in contrast with the yellow bones. Duo whispered something in his serpentine tongue, eyes dancing with hellfire. He slapped a band-aid on the laceration and bade Trowa watch. 

            The blood had not collected in the bottom of the coffin, as was expected. Instead, it hovered in the chest, a bright ruby bead. A hollow, squelching sound resounded, followed by a second, and a third, until a steady beat had formed. Around the blood, a heart had formed, pulsing weakly but steadily. Blue and magenta veins sprang forth, twining around bones like an intricate web. The bones knit themselves together, where there were fissures, it was made whole; where Quatre's head had been bashed in, the entire skull had fused back together. Organs grew from seemingly nothing, pink and healthy and alive. Muscle and tissue, sinews cording about the bone, supporting the frail structure. Cartilage regrew, shaping the delicate nose and ears. The empty sockets were suddenly filled with brilliant turquoise eyes that stared unblinking and lidless at the ceiling for a mere moment, until heavily lashed lids closed over them. Skin sheathed the newly working body, wrapping tightly about the slender frame. Soft blonde hair, pale as morning light grew on the scalp, falling thickly onto a gentle brow and curling about ears and neck. Even the tattered remains of his funeral suit were reborn, the rose waistcoat, the lace cravat, every button and buckle brought to its proper state. 

            "Holy shit," Catherine breathed when it finally seemed appropriate to speak. 

There, laying in the wormy coffin, was a very much alive-seeming corpse, as if Quatre had fallen asleep in his own grave. But his face was unnervingly pale, and though his heart beat, his chest did not rise and fall. 

            "You need to breathe for him, Trowa," Duo said gently. 

            "And then will he be alive?" Trowa replied, with an almost childish hope. 

The chestnut-haired psychic nodded. "All that'll remain is getting his soul back in, and that's not much of anything at all."

The tall brunette leaned over the coffin and placed his warm lips on the cold, lifeless ones of the prone form. He gave him his breath, pouring all the warmth and love he could into that one breath, hoping far beyond hope that it would be enough, and silently begging God to let it be. There was a tiny gasp, and Trowa felt a soft exhalation of air as the chest began to rise and fall. The pale cheeks colored with a pale rose blush, the colorless lips became bright, Pygmalion's nymph was nearing completion. 

            "You've done a fine job, Tro. The rest is up to me and Quatre. If I start sounding hokey, it's because I'm reading from the book. O spirits and shades, release the weary soul of our beloved Quatre Raberba Winner from perpetual night, and let him return to the warm of life and the arms of the ones he loves. Quatre, I now invite you to leave your phantasmal form and return to your soulless body."

There was a slight pause. Duo cocked his head to the side slightly. "That means get your ghost ass back in that body now, or else."

            There was a sudden chill in the room as a violent wind picked up, scattering papers wildly. The smell of roses grew to an unbearable, nauseating level as the maelstrom grew. The candles guttered out in a circle, starting from those at the head of the bed and arching around the perimeter of the room, firelights dancing about Trowa for a mere instant. The room was plunged into total darkness, Catherine screaming, and Wufei letting out a hoarse cry. And then, silence, silence like the tomb they'd crawled out of just hours ago. Somewhere down in the great hall, the clock resounded twelve doleful tolls. Everyone held their breaths, waiting for the four minutes afterwards to pass, the time of Quatre's death. 

            "It's five past the hour, please breathe before you all suffocate yourselves," a light tenor voice, unfamiliar without its echoing cadences, requested. 

~^~

Notes:

I definitely made up that whole necromancy ritual. I based it very loosely on a little lore from Inu-Yasha, some of those bad sci-fi series that are on at seven in the morning, and a lot of bullshitting. I don't suggest trying this ritual at home, children. It is for trained, professional cartoon characters. 

Next Chapter: The last chapter of the Parapsychology saga. But fear not, it won't be without an epilogue. So expect two more chapters to make it a nice, uneven eleven. Call it homage to Lady Une, everyone's favorite schizophrenic. 


	10. Finale: Tears, Kisses, and a Happy Endin...

It's back! The stunning conclusion is finally here for all of you who have been patiently and impatiently waiting for it. I'm kind of sad that it's over, even though there will be an epilogue after this. I'm also kind of mortified that I started writing this story in August, and now it's February. But I'll say this: I can't complain anymore when my favorite authors take forever to add a chapter to their own stories because I can't even do it myself. On that note, enjoy the last "official" chapter of Parapsychology.  

~^~

"It's five past the hour, please breathe before you all suffocate yourselves," a light tenor voice, unfamiliar without its echoing cadences, requested. A chorus of exhalations resounded through the room, still pitch-dark and cold as the tomb. Trowa, blowing on his chilled hands, glanced about frantically. 

"Lights…somebody put the lights on…dammit, Wufei! Get the lights!"

The Chinese man grumbled, giving a hard elbow to the old light switch. The chandelier overhead flickered, the flame-shaped bulbs flickering with age, the filaments glowing weakly. They pulsed on with a stronger light a few moments later, and everyone leaned expectantly towards the bed. 

            "Quatre?" Trowa asked, visibly shaking, long fingers crossed. The lithe form still lay prone in the coffin, but its eyes were wide open, liquid blue and wet with tears, real tears that had waited two hundred years to be shed. A small smile played on thin, rosy lips. 

            "Are you just going to stare at me? This coffin is very uncomfortable, you know," he remarked. 

Trowa let out a shuddering gasp and collapsed to tears, standing by the bedside with his hand clasped over his mouth, body shuddering with paroxysms. Heero calmly walked over and wrenched the rotting wooden sides of the casket apart with his bare hands, tossing them aside and nearly decking Wufei with a thick chunk of moist wood. Catherine held out a perfumed hand, gently helping the boy to rise to wobbly feet. 

            "Careful," she admonished as his knees started buckling, "if _Princess Bride _has taught me nothing else, it's that coming back to life means noodly legs for a while."

Quatre nodded, draping himself over Catherine for support. She was surprised at just how light he was. 

            "Everything feel all right to you, kiddo?" Duo asked. "You don't have your spleen up around your trachea, do you?" 

The blonde wiggled slightly. "If my spleen is out of place, I wouldn't be able to tell. You wouldn't even know I had my skull smashed in," he stated, rapping his knuckles on his head. Duo chuckled, fluttering about the room; picking up his miscellaneous bits and bobs. 

            "Barton, will you shut up? Nataku, you're a grown man, quit bawling already!" Wufei groused. 

Heero glared at his Chinese colleague. "Leave Trowa alone, he's been through hell these past couple of days and hasn't been able to really cope yet."

Wufei muttered something under his breath and skulked out of the room, his ebon ponytail whipping behind him as he moved. 

            "Man, he's a jackass sometimes," Duo sighed as soon as he was out of earshot. The violet-eyed man dropped another jar into a duffel bag and moved to drape his arms about his lover's shoulders. Heero smiled slightly, ruffling his long bangs. 

            "Ignore him, he's just tired. You did well tonight, Duo. Trowa's never going to be able to repay you for it."

Duo nodded slightly, whimpering tiredly. "Uh-huh. But I don't _want_ him to have to repay me, I'm just glad he's going to be happy for once…if he ever gets out of his post-traumatic funk."

            "Trowa?" Quatre asked quietly, still draped limply over Catherine, looking like a slightly dirty rag doll, bits of coffin smudged in his hair, the wet wood dirtying his good clothes. "Could you maybe take me downstairs? I'd like to change out of my funeral clothes, and possibly get some sleep."

His voice seemed to snap Trowa from his spasms, and he quickly wiped his eyes, replacing his stoic's mask. 

            "Yeah, sure, Quatre," he replied stiffly, voice sounding broken. He scooped up the blonde in his arms, the young Frenchman slinging his limp wrists about his lover's neck. Quatre rested his head on Trowa's shoulder, eyelids fluttering open and closed. 

            "For somebody who's only been alive ten minutes, I'm exhausted," he murmured. 

            "You're going to be for a while," Duo remarked. "It's part of the downside of being resurrected like this. But hey, it's a small price to pay when the other option was being dead, right?"

Quatre chuckled, nodding briefly. "Mm. Good night, everyone. And thank you."

~^~

            "I haven't thanked _you_ yet," Quatre remarked as they plodded down the stairs, moving with a methodic slowness so as not to stumble down the stone steps. "I've put you through so much, I've made you suffer so badly.  I'm so sorry for everything…"

Trowa blinked tiredly, dark bags sagging under his eyes. "What are you apologizing for?"

The blonde Frenchman stroked the bandaged palm tenderly. 

            "This," he said, and moved his fingers to rest briefly on his lover's ribcage. "And this. I've made you cry so much, and I don't want to see you cry ever again, Trowa. Please don't."

Trowa bowed his head slightly, rounding the corner into the familiar corridor where their rooms were. "All right."

They nudged the door open, and walked straight into the bathroom, sidestepping the pile of dirty laundry on the floor and the bags of equipment. Trowa swatted the light switch with his elbow as they walked past, setting Quatre down on the marble countertop as the harsh halogen lighting flickered on. 

            "Bath or shower?" Trowa inquired, eyes darting between the monstrous whirlpool bath and the equally large freestanding shower. "You're getting one, either way."

Quatre bit his lip, swinging his legs a little. "I think I want to try and stand up. You'll help me though, won't you, Trowa?"

He nodded and walked over to the stainless steel towel rack, lifting off an armload of fluffy sage green towels and dropping them with a terrycloth thump onto the tiled floor. He opened the shower door and turned the taps on, water instantly gushing forth. Quatre was mildly amazed by this, but too worn out to really care how he was going to get cleaned, modern marvel or not. With fumbling, weary fingers he unbuttoned, unbuckled and unlaced every last stitch of clothing, dropping them to the floor with an apathetic carelessness. 

            "I want to burn those. Can we?" he asked, still seated on the counter. 

            "I'll strike the match myself," the jade-eyed American replied, shucking off his own clothes and dropping them to the floor before extending one olive hand to his partner. Quatre slithered off the countertop bonelessly, not rising immediately, but still managing to stand more or less on his own. He flashed a winning, albeit exhausted, smile and allowed his lover to guide him into the shower as steam billowed over the top. 

            "If it's too much for you, sit," Trowa instructed, motioning to the little built-in bench seat. "Don't pretend you're okay for me, Quatre. I know you went through just as much as I did."

The blue-eyed young man nodded and immediately sat down. "It's too much, my head's starting to get all fuzzy."

Trowa smiled with the kind of warm understanding that one will only see a few times in their life, extracting a bottle of shampoo from a caddy rack suspended from the showerhead tubing and dumping the lime green liquid into his hands. His auburn hair was soaked now, plastered to his face in one inglorious clump, and as he leaned over to massage the shampoo into Quatre's hair, the blonde reached up with one pale hand and slicked it back. 

            "I want to see _all _of my Trowa," he explained simply, sliding over for him to sit as well. Had circumstances been slightly different, and both men were not so weak and wearisome that it was a challenge just to hold a bar of soap flat in their palms, the moment of intimacy would have been spent far differently. The thought _had _crossed Trowa's mind briefly, as he slid lathered hands across smooth skin, missing nothing. The fleeting vision of Quatre pressed against the shower wall, whimpering in pleasure, had tickled him, but Trowa was not cruel and knew that neither of them could even really stand, let alone have the energy for passionate lovemaking. It could wait. 

            Quatre watched with mild interest as the shampoo suds swirled down the drain, and with it, the fetters of his past life, the blood and grime of two hundred years of heartache and agony washing away. He shifted, kneeling on the bench, a little surprised he could manage swinging his legs up underneath him, and leaning over until he was practically on top of Trowa. The shower pelted hot water at him, spraying a halo of steamy water about him. 

            "As tired as I am, I have one more request," he said, stroking one tanned arm. 

Trowa looked up inquisitively, not voicing the 'what?' that his eyes so clearly posed. 

            "Will you kiss me, Trowa?"

Their mouths met in a flash of electric contact, a charge of warm thrill passing from skin to skin that surged down their spines and fanned out along their bodies. Slick arms wrapped about each other, clinging wetly to heated flesh, slipping as they held as tightly as they could. Quatre's lips parted willingly, softly whimpering as he arched his slender neck. Trowa made some guttural noise from deep in his larynx, slipping his tongue in to tenderly mate with his lover's. The temperature around them seemed to soar, as if the droplets of water were instantly turning to steam as they made contact with their skin. Quatre broke away with a gasp, eyes unfocused for a moment or two, cheeks flushed and lips sufficiently bruised. 

            "If I didn't believe I was alive before, I believe it now," he stated, dropping his wet head onto Trowa's chest. "In a way, though, I think I'm glad I died. If I hadn't, I would have never met you, and we'd never have this."

Trowa shook his head, his hair starting to fall back into his eyes. "You'd have found me some other way. As another person, another Quatre, slightly different but still the same. Still the pretty face and the kind heart I fell in love with the first time around."

            "You talk a lot when you're tired," he observed with a yawn. "Let's go to bed."

Trowa smiled, leaning over and turning off the taps. "Sounds like a plan to me."

Though his legs shook violently, and he had to cling to Trowa with an iron grip, Quatre managed to step out of the shower himself. Trowa acknowledged this with a smile, wrapping him in a thick, fluffy green towel and slinging one around his own slender waist. He held out his arms for his lover, as if he were a mere child, and Quatre gratefully accepted the offer, swinging up into a warm and comfortable embrace, long legs dangling inelegantly over his affianced's arm. They staggered into the bedroom together, the ocean-eyed young man artistically bending backwards to peel back the silky blankets. The towels were shucked, tossed with the dirty laundry to the floor with the careless apathy of two young men who could hardly remember their own names. 

"This is…was…Trois' bed," Quatre remarked, slipping his still-wet body under the covers, snuggling against one of the overstuffed pillows. Trowa nodded, climbing in and spooning up beside the blonde. "I fell asleep in this bed more times than I did my own bed. It still smells a little like him. Like oil paints and strong coffee."

"Hn," the green-eyed New Englander replied, the mattress springs creaking and squealing as he shifted. "Well, it's _my _bed now, and you're _my _Quatre. Trois can fuck off."

Quatre would have commented on the lack of logic in that statement, seeing as how Trowa was, or was at some point in time, that selfsame man. But he was far too tired, and not in the mood to argue with the deliciously warm and indelibly wonderful creature lying beside him. 

            "Good night, Quatre."

            "Love you, Trowa."

They fell asleep looking into each other's eyes, lulled by the cool emerald green of the forests and tranquil blue waters, and they were content to stay there for some indeterminate time, just as long as there was warmth and loving embraces and the soft sound of the one person who meant more than anything breathing the name of his lover. 

~^~

            It was late in the afternoon when the Wing Agency returned home and later still when they finally reconvened with Willowisp, though minus their stalwart leader. They were sprawled across the couches and stuffed armchairs in the living room, Zechs and Noin recounting their adventures with the Kennebunkport lighthouse ghost that they did not see at all whatsoever the entire weekend they were there. Catherine had sunk into one of the armchairs, legs swung up over the arms, indulging herself in another manga she'd tucked in her bag. Duo was rocking back and forth in time to his Game Boy, gyrating about on the couch cushion as his thumbs rapidly moved over the buttons. Heero was reading some thick tome, glancing up every now and then. 

            "You should jump right now," he stated.

            "Wha? Jump wh…aw, shit, I died! _Thanks, _Heero," Duo groused, having to start all over again. Thankfully, he'd only been on the second level. 

            "I _did _warn you. You're just not quick enough, Shinigami no baka."

Duo stuck his tongue out. "That's right, Shinigami is _no _baka."

Hilde shrugged indifferently, swallowing a pair of bright blue-and-yellow caplets, medication for her still-suffering stomach. The lobster refused to die, she had stated with a melodramatic sweep of her hand, and she should have foreseen it with her "psychic powers."

            "Ah, poor me! What's a girl to do when she is taunted by something that tasted so good?" she wailed, pretending to shed tears. Duo rolled his eyes and ignored her completely. 

            "Onna, you're a disaster. I can't leave you by yourself for one minute without you getting hurt, can I?" Wufei groused, gesturing to the light cast that covered his wife's hand and wrist. Sally retorted something acerbic and in Chinese, a reply that made Heero twitch. It was something one did not say to their husbands unless they were Sally Po or had very good insurance policies. Everyone knew, though, that their constant bickering and cursing was really just a front, the fire-breathing really some secret language they shared. Wufei was actually voicing his concern, and Sally acknowledging it. She'd tripped on a wire Walker had tugged loose from the gaffer's tape that had secured it to the floor, falling halfway down the spiral lighthouse stairs, fracturing her wrist. 

            "Did you meet with your proposed misfortune, Wufei?"

He snorted. "Of course. Barton was a quivering mass of onna, the ghost had no sense of justice, and it was a mission that hardly called for my talents. All in all, it was a complete waste of my time. Indeed, I met with my misfortune."

Sally smirked. "Good."

            Noin bounced her burbling child on her knee, glancing around with consternation. "Where the hell is Trowa? This is _his _business, why isn't he at the meeting?"

Zechs shrugged. "Maybe he's in the office, taking a call. That damn phone doesn't stop ringing whether we're here or not."

The cluster of scientists all paused in their camaraderie moments later, though, as they heard the sound of feet shuffling down the stairs slowly, and the murmur of a familiar baritone voice. But it was coupled with a new voice, at least, new to the members of the Willowisp faction. A light, airy tenor that sounded merry and youthful, joined with a slightly bouncy step. 

            "Ahem, everyone," Trowa coughed, stepping into the room with the most impassive expression on his face, as if nothing had changed and he was still the quiet, morosely stoic man they'd seen a weekend ago, arguing with Duo over a sandwich purloined from the kitchen counter. That was before he broke out into an uncharacteristic grin, laughing at something only he seemed to find funny. 

            "Trowa, are you all right?" Sally asked, pursing her lips. "You're not yourself."

Hilde's eyes went wide and with an excited squeal she clapped her hands together and propelled herself from the chair she had occupied. "My prediction came true, didn't it?!"

            "Everyone," he repeated solemnly, "this is Quatre Winner…my fiancé."

A young man dressed in a celadon sweater and jeans slowly stepped into the room, each step deliberate and careful as he moved on slightly unsteady legs. He smiled warmly, ocean blue eyes bright from underneath a fringe of soft blonde hair that curled around his ears delicately. The group of researchers, all eight of them, were struck dumb at the sight of this newcomer, who was growing quite pink with a healthy blush that blossomed over the apples of his cheeks. Sally's coalition had never before laid eyes on such a handsome creature, and the others hadn't seen much of Quatre since the night of his fateful rebirth. When he had ventured into public, he was a pale, listless little thing still too wearisome for conversation. 

            "Fuck me, he's gorgeous! Trowa, where the hell did you dig up somebody this good-looking?" Hilde cried suddenly, breaking the spell that had been woven over the room. Quatre laughed, running a hand through his bangs. 

            "In the cemetery behind Peacecraft Castle," he stated quite honestly.

She looked stunned, mouth opening and closing as though she were a fish flopping on some wind-worn pier, eyes darting frantically from coworker to coworker for answers. 

Heero shrugged. "Can't argue with him there."

            "We have the calluses to prove it," Wufei added with the same cool indifference. 

Noin shook her head, still bouncing the squirming Walker in her lap. Trowa and Quatre merely smiled, crossing the room and flopping into the same leather armchair. 

            "You owe us an explanation, Barton, so start talking," she demanded. 

            "And don't you leave out a single detail," Sally put in. "Because this sounds almost too weird to be real."

Trowa nodded. "Well, truth _is _often stranger than fiction."

            "And Duo's stranger than all of the above."

            "HEERO! That was mean!"

Quatre curled up in Trowa's lap, his head resting against his chest, lulled almost to sleep by the beating of his fiancée's heart. Such a trivial thing, a heartbeat, he mused. And yet he could never really take something so seemingly insignificant for granted, especially not when this man, this kind and loving man had bled, had wept, just to give him one. These people that surrounded him now, though he'd just met them, had instantly become the loving family he never really knew. Iria and Brigitte, wherever they were at that moment, would be so terribly proud. 

"Quatre? Something wrong?" Trowa murmured in his ear while Duo had taken the narrative, giving a colorful description of the castle and a lengthy complaint about the lack of continental breakfasts that were supposed to be provided. Oatmeal, he was screaming, oatmeal. 

"Of course not, love. Just thinking about things."

Trowa kissed the top of his head lightly. "I never got to thank _you, _Quatre."

Eyes of a blue that stretched beyond infinity blinked up at him with question. One could easily get lost in those eyes, unable to tear away from their limitless depths. 

            "You are the best thing that's happened to me. Thank you for waiting all this time."

Quatre smiled with enough conviction to blot out the sun with his brightness. "I'd do it again if I had to."

            Things were never quite the same for the Wing Paranormal Research Agency after that. Their careers seemed to take on a totally different meaning ever since Quatre came back with them. Granted, they were still able to laugh and joke about some of their cases, and putter across America in a dilapidated but exquisitely painted Volkswagen van; but there was this air of solemnity now, a realization that someday, they themselves might be one of these apparitions scientists would be called in to take photographs and recordings of. Yet, it was never a sad thought, because Quatre had become a bright spot of sunshine in all of their lives. It was almost inconceivable to think that the happy young man sitting barefoot on the porch playing violin at nights while fireflies chased about him had been dead for nearly three centuries beforehand. But they didn't mind it. It was one of those weird little circumstances you learned to live with when you were in the parapsychology business. And as long as there were strange new challenges to encounter, new oddities to explore, they'd never get bored with it.

The End.

~^~

Wow. It's done. I'm kind of in shock that it's actually done. I'm really sorry that it took so long to finish; life has been hectic beyond comprehension. School has taken up most of my time these days, and I haven't been home long enough to write. And I just found out recently that my uncle has cancer, so I've been fretting about that a lot too. But I appreciate all of you sticking by me and supporting me (and nagging me to finish!). The readers are the ones that make this all possible. Thank you.

Next: The epilogue! And then…then I can get my act together and haul ass on Allegro. 


	11. Epilogue: What Happens After That

Well, here it is, the epilogue of Parapsychology. I'm really quite proud of this, it's the first really long fanfic I've ever actually finished, and my first serious Gundam Wing fic, if you can believe it. A lot has happened since I first started this, especially the fact that when I started I think I'd only seen the first few episodes of the series (plus Endless Waltz) and now I'm down to the last six (plus the unedited version of Endless Waltz). And now if you'll excuse me, while you're reading this, I have to go shovel out the driveway. Damn blizzard dumping two and a half feet of snow in the freaking yard, it's really too much for me to handle. 

_One year later…_

            The main office of the Wing Agency still seemed rather normal, though it had been refurbished in the time that had progressed. The floor was still wood or wood-laminate, and the threshold was still guarded by large double doors. But the floor was now a honey-colored wood, and the double doors did not seem as ominous. The large, picturesque window was still there, impeccably clean, and complimented with white blinds. Rather than one boxy mahogany desk, there were two smaller, more elegant oak desks, both of them remarkably spotless. One could see the blotter-cum-desk calendars. The Rolodexes were in one corner, the large, professional-looking phones on the same side, pencil jars occupying the other side along with staplers and boxes of rubber bands. The Post-It notes, green and pink ones, were smack dab in the middle, littering the edges of the blotter-calendar. The black pole light in the corner had been replaced with white recessed lights in the ceiling, the squat gray file cabinet adorned with a vase of poppies, the potted fern had died several months before. The walls were a china blue color, the wainscoting a honeyed oak that ran across the perimeter. The newspaper clippings and photographs had been reframed as well, matted with the china blue and framed with honeyed oak. And on the desks were two metal placards, _Trowa Barton, PhD, _and _Quatre Barton. _

            Both men were seated at their desks, the former jotting notes on a Steno pad, absently chewing on the cap of his pen, while the latter cradled the phone against his shoulder. He, a handsome blonde with the most incredible aquamarine eyes, was playing with a glass camel paperweight that had been guarding the pencil jar. 

            "Yes, could you hold on for one minute?" he asked the customer on the phone, cupping his hand over the receiver. "Trowa, what's our policy on exorcisms?"

The green-eyed doctor in paranormal research frowned, running his hand through his thick fall of russet hair. "As far as I know, we don't have one. It'd be up to Hilde and Duo, if anything."

            "Yes, hello, can I get back to you on that? Great, thanks, you have a pleasant afternoon as well."

Trowa tossed the pen aside, glancing up at a clock hanging on the wall to the right. "Almost four. Take a tea break?"

            "That would be lovely," his partner replied, getting up out of his chair. He leaned over Trowa's, ruffling his hair with delicate fingers. "And then we really should get back to that charming gentleman with the bleeding walls."

            There was a sudden bang on the doors as Catherine Bloom kicked one in, her arms laden with a wooden tray, a steaming teacup rattling on its mismatched saucer and a plate of warm tea biscuits sliding around on it as well. 

            "For my sweet little brother-in-law…I'll go get yours in a minute, Tro, I just couldn't carry both at once. I figured, well, it's close to teatime and you two have been shut up in this office all day, so I made you tea and cookies," she said, handing off the tray to the blue-eyed young man. 

            "Hey, Cathy, thanks for the tea and cookies. But next time, babe, a little less milk and a lot more sugar!" Duo recommended, licking his lips as he leaned on the doorframe. He was still by far the scruffiest psychic in the business, wearing holey black jeans and a misshapen gray tank top that read _Psychics Need Love Too_. Trowa glared at him, and the violet-eyed necromancer laughed nervously, realizing he'd partaken in tea that was not left out for him. 

            "So, what do we have for new cases? Poltergeists in a butler's pantry? Drowned teen pool party? Ghost cat leaving mice by the front door?" he asked, trying to steer the subject away from his theft. 

Quatre picked up a couple of neatly labeled Post-It notes from his desk. "Let's see…there's a charming young man from Stanford whose dorm room walls are bleeding, we have to call him back. And a woman just called asking about our policy on exorcisms…could you or Hilde get in touch with her? She'd like it done rather soon."

            "And," Catherine added, pulling a piece of paper out of her pocket, "while you and Trowa were out having dinner last night, I took this call. A woman in Russia would like us to send a team out, she's got a Class Three on her hands."

            "Do you think it's too late to call?" Quatre asked, picking up the phone at his elbow. Trowa shook his head, taking the receiver from his hands. 

            "If it is, I'll be the one to get blamed for it. Ah, yes, hello, this is Dr. Trowa Barton from the Wing Paranormal Research Agency, you called regarding a possible case?"

            _"Yes, my name is Lady Une, and I was wondering if you could send someone out to examine my estate. I have tried every sort of medium, psychic, and researcher from here to Moscow, and am about ready to give up hope."_

Trowa nodded, tearing off the page of notes he'd been jotting on his Steno pad, Quatre handing him his pen. "Hn, I see. Could you describe the apparition a little, Lady Une?"

            _"Certainly. He was once a wealthy aristocrat, a relative to a czar, called Treize Khushrenada. But something happened, and he was killed most horribly, and now his ghost haunts his estate, which I have come to inherit over the years. Please say you will help me, Dr. Barton, I have heard you are the best in the field and have had experience with spirits who have ties to the living world."_

            "Um, yes…our agency has had a few cases where the deceased makes contact with someone they knew who had long since died and was reincarnated. May I ask why you mentioned that?" he asked, shooting a glance over at his husband, who was idly nibbling a cookie. 

            _"Because, Dr. Barton, Count Treize Khushrenada was my husband…or at least, that is what a gypsy medium told me, and it is what he has told me himself. Shall I wire you tickets to Russia?"_

            "Yes, we'll need…just a moment, Lady…" he cupped a hand over the receiver. "Duo, are you taking that exorcism case or what? The woman wants to know how many tickets to reserve."

The braided psychic pumped his fist enthusiastically. "Giving it to Hilde, I'm going to Russia, Tro-man!"

            "Six, lady. My technical crew and I will see you shortly. Have a nice evening."

Catherine started doing her 'we have a new case' dance, Duo joining in as well. The brunette scientist sighed gravely, hoping he wasn't expected to dance along with them, they looked ridiculous as the camerawoman and the psychic hokey-pokeyed around the office. 

            "Don't look so grave, darling. This time, you're just the scientist. You won't be expected to do anything but take measurements and observe things and yell at everyone else. We'll let this Lady Une worry about sacrilegious rituals and all of that nonsense," Quatre purred, kissing his husband on the cheek. 

            "Well, let's finish calling those other cases back, and then we can go round up everyone. I wonder if Heero's finished putting the new engine block in Escaflowne yet."

            "I don't see why you insist on keeping that poor van, Trowa. It's almost as old as I am, and no matter how many new parts you install in it, it just gets worse. I'll buy you a new one and we can have Miss Noin paint whatever you want on it."

            "It's the principle of the matter, Quatre. Escaflowne and I have been through everything together. I just can't get rid of her like that," he protested, picking up the phone to call back that Stanford student, while Quatre went to call the woman in Boise and inform her that someone would be available to perform her exorcism. And Trowa had to smile, watching as Quatre did his job as "personal assistant." It was hard to believe they'd been married for a year, even harder still to believe that just a year ago, he'd been dead. He wondered if this same story would play out with the lady and her count. 

            _Oh well, _he thought, half-listening to the line ringing, _here we go again…_

~^~

Now it's most definitely finished. Yay! I mean…boo. But if you thoroughly enjoyed this, as I know most of you have, there might just be a prequel in the horizon. Asuka Kureru and Nanashi Kage Enjeru both expressed their wishes for a story focusing on how Heero and Duo got together prior to this story. So kids, you might get your wish. Until then, though, go read Allegro, it's quirky and fun and the story of my life…only with Quatre…and dating…and stuff that really doesn't happen to me.  


End file.
